


You Can't Take the Sky from Me

by Haro



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 107,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haro/pseuds/Haro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ace pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of sky-pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hetalia chapter fic, and it's a steampunk AU. Outside the obvious US/UK, future pairings in this will be Germany/N. Italy, Poland/Lithuania, Greece/Japan, Hungary/Austria, Sweden/Finland, Spain/Romano, Prussia/Switzerland. Thanks so much to Radishey on livejournal for Brit-picking the first four chapters of the story. I appreciate it greatly! As of 9/4/2012 this story has gone through revision. No plot elements were changed though, so it's not necessary to reread at all.

The large fans in the hangar were loud enough to almost conceal the exuberant footsteps that pounded against the concrete. America was practically bubbling over with enthusiasm as he shoved a piece of paper into his comrades’ faces. “I knew it. I knew I’d get it eventually!” he yelled in delight, wrapping his arms around the shoulders of two of them.   
  
“What is it Lieutenant Jones?” asked the black-haired young man under America’s left arm.   
  
He laughed, his grin growing. “Japan. I told you not to call me that. Just America, no lieutenant. And besides it’s captain now.” He paused and squeezed his arms around the pair a little tighter, before turning to the blond next to him and pointing to the double barred insignia now pinned on his chest. “That’s right Canada. You get to be the right hand man to a captain now!”   
  
Canada smiled weakly, pleased for America but worried that his new assignment might bring a whole load of unpleasant work for the aero-engineer.   
  
Japan was busy politely congratulating his new captain when France finally piped in. He was standing across from the trio, hands on his hips and bomber jacket slung over his shoulder. “Congratulations, ace pilot.” He walked toward them and shrugged. “Although it would be nice if the Aviation Force awarded ranks based on more than just flight skill.”   
  
America clenched his fist, wadding the paper up between his fingers, and removed his arms from the shoulders of Japan and Canada. “Fuck off, France. You’ve seen my stats. You know how many missions I’ve lead and my rate of success. I’m not just some rookie pilot who got lucky.” He pointed his finger and beamed. “I’m a hero!”   
  
France sighed and shook his head. “Fair enough. Congratulations.” He placed his hand on America’s chest and smirked. “But being your subordinate doesn’t mean I’m going to start asking permission for… you know.” He spun his finger in a circle across America’s shirt. The younger man slapped his hand away and cringed.  
  
“Pervert. You’ve been my subordinate since you joined this unit, and I’ve never let you do that crap.”  
  
Japan glanced to Canada and sighed. “I think that nothing much is going to change here.”   
  
“Probably not.”   
  
America had stopped arguing with France and was now perusing the hangar. It contained his plane, an Aeronaut-7300 produced by the Aquila branch of the Worldwide Military. Aquila was America’s home continent, and every pilot, although not required, generally wanted a plane from their respective part of the world. Japan’s prized plane came from Tsuru and France’s came from the La Poule peninsula in Habicht. The Worldwide Military was exactly that, a military encompassing all nations of the world who wished to be a part of it. It had been established a century before, and after years of struggle, had settled into a groove and proven to be quite an efficient idea. From Ho-Rang-Eee in the south to Fálki in the far north, the military’s forces spread across the globe, dozens of independent governments, states, provinces, and continents, working together for a common cause. America and Canada both heralded from Aquila, the continent that held the military base they were currently occupying.   
  
America’s biplane was his pride and his joy, and he treated it as such. No one was allowed to touch it except for Canada, who worked in the hangar as a mechanic. He patted his plane on the nose, as if thanking it for helping him achieve his captainship, then turned back to the group. “We’ve got a major from the umm… the…” he scratched his head and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, “the Mid-Northern Passage coming. He’s here to talk about a mission we’ll be collaborating on next week.”   
  
Japan nodded, sitting down at a table and resting his head on his hand. “I’ll do my best to make the mission a success.”   
  
America sat down next to him, putting his hands behind his head and propping his legs up on the table. “Heh. As if I have to worry about you not doing your best, Japan.” He leered at France as the third member of the team joined them. “It’s him I’m more worried about.”   
  
“France is a good pilot,” Japan pointed out.  
  
“But he’s  _so_  easily distracted.” America rolled his eyes, pointedly getting revenge for France’s earlier comments. “If you know what I mean.”  
  
“Who doesn’t?” France quipped. Canada, who had slipped out a few minutes earlier, came rushing back into the hangar panting.   
  
“The two officers are here now.” He sat down himself. It wasn’t protocol to let a mechanic sit in at a military meeting, and in fact America thought he might get in trouble for it if anyone found out. But it was Canada, and Canada was as much a part of their team as anyone else. He never told him to leave the table.   
  
As the two officers entered the hangar, America contemplated taking his feet off the table for a moment. He decided against it.   
  
“Hellooo!” came the bright voice of the officer who was trailing behind. He was wide-eyed and vivacious, with reddish brown hair and an enthusiastic smile. This was in direct contrast to the man walking in front of him at a brisk pace, his expression stoic.   
  
“Yo.” America waved, leaning back in his chair so it tipped up off the ground.   
  
“You’re going to fall over,” Canada fretted. America ignored him.   
  
The two officers and saluted and then sat down on America’s request. He introduced them to his team and they returned the favor.  
  
“Major Germany---“  
  
“And I’m Second Lieutenant Vargas, but you can just call me Veneziano!” the other soldier interrupted, practically bouncing in his chair.   
  
“My, my aren’t you exuberant,” France commented with a wink. Japan cleared his throat.   
  
“Next Wednesday we’ll be collaborating on a reconnaissance mission on the Medved side of the mouth of the Mid-Northern Passage. We’ve received intelligence that the Kosmider may be headquartered there,” Germany explained.  
  
America blinked. “Now  _what_  exactly is the Kosmider?”   
  
“Shouldn’t a newly minted captain know such things?” France sighed.   
  
Germany frowned. “Actually it’s a fair question. The Kosmider is an uprising on the Medved continent, but we have little information on any specifics. Nothing on their leaders or their members, even. There have been attacks on sky-pirate ships, and they travel in zeppelins. It’s a huge mystery, hence the reconnaissance.” He rested his elbows on the table. “Their slogan is  _My Vlasteliny Nebes_ \--- We Own the Sky.”   
  
“Since when did the military care about fights between sky-pirates?” America inquired. “As long as they keep it amongst themselves, they can fight all they want, right?”   
  
“It’s true that we rarely get involved in the affairs of sky-pirates. What they do is hardly legal as is,” Germany agreed.  
  
Japan’s mouth formed a tight line. “But the World Military lets a lot slide with them, since thieving is a matter best left to local law enforcement. The sky-pirates are a dying breed. There’s less than ten substantial crews left in the world’s skies. Why would anyone even bother taking them out?”   
  
It was then that Veneziano piped up, his expression nervous. “Umm… my brother is part of the Nuberu Pirates,” he explained, wary of revealing this information to military personnel, “and he told me it’s been merchant ships as well. Merchant ships blown out of the sky, and sky-pirates have had to do a lot of the rescuing.”   
  
“Why have we not heard about this?” America kicked his feet back onto the ground. “That’s something we should know!”   
  
“Military is trying to keep it secret because they don’t want people to panic, I imagine,” France reasoned.   
  
Germany nodded. “If people think it’s just sky-pirates under attack, the general public won’t bat an eye. Pirate squabbles are just a part of the game.”   
  
America slammed his hands on the table. “That’s terrible! We can’t let them continue to go after innocent merchant ships like that. This sounds like a reconnaissance job for a hero!”   
  
The major leaned over to Canada, who had been hitherto quiet. “Is he always like this?” Canada just nodded. 

* * *

  
  
The mission was to begin at six ‘o’ clock military time the next Wednesday morning. Germany and Veneziano’s unit would be covering the ground aspect of the mission, and America’s unit would come in from the air.   
  
It was Friday evening and America had been given the duty of doing flyovers around the mouth of the Mid-Northern Passage. He was to fly across the Ao-Jun Ocean and arrive in Medved on Saturday afternoon. Canada had given his plane a thorough check before allowing him to be sent off, chiding America for how his reckless flying wore down the machine. “No one in the world has a more expensive plane than you America, I swear.”   
  
America, as usual, ignored Canada’s complaints. He didn’t care how much it cost to keep his plane alive and well, he loved the freedom of flying too much to fly ‘safely’ as Canada had asked. He put one of his many records in the miniature record player he’d had installed in the plane. The records were small, about twelve centimeters wide, and the needle sometimes jiggled in flight and caused them to skip. But it was a minor annoyance. When America was on a mission by himself, silence unnerved him. A few hours into the flight and about twenty loop-de-loop stunts later, America checked the fob watch he kept tied to his belt. The front glass was cracked, but the time piece still worked. It was a few minutes after midnight.   
  
He nosedived and flew upwards at an insane speed, relishing in the thrill of it, then doing it again for good measure. His latest record ended, and he switched it out for another one. He paused for a few minutes in his shenanigans to drink a cola and eat a burger he’d brought along, watching the midnight star bright sky as he did so. The stars felt close enough to touch at two thousand meters up in the sky, and he watched them as he munched on his late dinner. A down-tempo song came on his record, and he started to think to himself about how this was his first official mission as a captain. America earned his pilot license on his own at seventeen and jumped at the chance to join the Aviation Force as soon as he graduated school at eighteen. But as America was just now twenty-one, this meant he’d only been there for three years. He was young, he was an ace pilot, but damned if he didn’t know he was good at what he did. And he was fiercely protective of any soldiers under his command. America was unable to understand why France, or anyone, would be bitter about his assignment. He thought back on his early months in the Aviation Force. He’d had a lot of good friends, but as he’d risen through the ranks and been awarded esteem upon esteem, they’d almost all become acquaintances and his friends dwindled down to just Canada, Japan, and France. He frowned and rubbed his nose between his glasses.  _Maybe they just couldn’t handle my awesome,_  he told himself, not entirely convinced.   
  
When he finished his dinner and his late-night contemplations, he was about 1,300 kilometers from Aquila and a thousand kilometers away from Luong, the island continent in the middle of the Ao-Jun Ocean. That’s when he noticed something wrong with the plane. There was a slight rattle, which was worrisome enough. But the snap that came next got America reaching for his parachute. It came down from near the steam-powered engine, and almost, instantly, the plane began swerving wildly and falling.  
  
America reached for his radio and shouted ‘Mayday’ and his coordinates, but he knew he was too far from anyone to garner attention. He cursed and toyed with the controls, slamming the record player off in the middle of doing so. Attaining temporary steadiness, he breathed a sigh of a moment’s relief. He was going to crash, but maybe he could ease down slowly enough to save the plane. He began his descent.  
  
In the near distance he made out a sight that had become unusual within the past twenty or so years, certainly they were already declining by the time America was born. It was a sky-pirate ship. Too dark to make out any colors or details, but he surveyed the huge sails that billowed in the high altitude sky. He could almost hear the loud steam engines that powered the ship from where he was. America had a crazy idea. He picked up his radio and called out again, hoping that the nearby ship would pick up his frequency. “Request permission to land on your ship,” he relayed. “No legal action will be taken against your ship. This is a Code…” he paused to remember the number, “4472, meaning that umm… it’s a neutral landing. I just need to make repairs.”   
  
He waited in the silence, the only sound being the distant steam engines and the rattle of his plane.  _Dammit._  The plane was descending faster now, and he pulled up again, as much as was possible. “Is there anyone there?” A sudden terrifying idea struck America. Perhaps it was a ghost ship? People he knew had always laughed at him for it, but America was cripplingly terrified of the supernatural. Although he’d come to love it more than anything in the end, he was initially too scared to fly the first time as a child because he’d heard stories of phantom pirate ships in the sky. His stomach lurched and his heart sped up. He’d wasted time contacting the ship, and there was no way he could keep it up long enough to make a smooth landing in the ocean.   
  
With wide eyes and a gulp, America began to shakily maneuver himself toward the ship. Its mast came into view, the sails red and white with blue flags scattered about. There were gas lights lit, but there was enough of a fog around the ship to mute them.  _So eerie._  He grimaced, nearly paralyzed with fear as he landed as gently as he could on the deck of the ship.   
  
He stopped the dying engine and stepped out of the plane as silently as he could manage, as if one wrong step would wake the dead. The deck appeared completely empty, so America tentatively opened the plane and took a peek at the engine damage. Before exiting, he grabbed a flashtorch from a compartment in his cockpit; he was using that now to survey the extent of the problem. There was a snapped belt, that much was obvious. He’d snapped this belt before, but it had never caused the plane to completely flip out as it had this time. He pulled back, wiping grease off his face and pulling his aviator hat tighter over his ears. The night sky was chilly. He turned back to the engine.   
  
He didn’t notice the footsteps on the deck, so intent was he on investigating the engine, and so insistent was he on pretending nothing could be wrong with this ship.  _They’re just asleep, that’s it_.  
  
But when he felt the cold steel of a sword’s blade at his throat, he couldn’t help noticing the presence of someone else. America’s heart leapt into his throat, half expecting to turn around and see a mass of decaying flesh that had formerly been a pirate or some kind of sinister skeleton. Slowly, he turned his head, careful not to let the blade cut his neck.   
  
It was not a zombie or a skeleton his eyes met with, but a young man, scarcely older than him and quite a bit shorter. He was wearing a pair of striped pajamas, and over them, a blue and red pirate coat with gold embellishments and a blue plumed hat that looked rather ridiculous with the pajamas. It was sideways, as if he’d pulled it all on in a hurry. His hair was sandy blond and short, and green eyes glared at him underneath thick, furrowed, angry eyebrows. It was a precision sharp rapier pointed at his neck, which he’d presumably just pulled from the belt that hung over his pajama pants.   
  
“I thought you aviator military scum knew to stay the hell off of my ship,” the pirate spat, venom in his voice.  
  
America breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Oh good. I was so afraid you were a ghost!”


	2. The Pirate in Pyjamas

England’s eyes widened as they adjusted to the dark of his ship’s deck, the gas lights and stars being the only things that lit his way. He could make out the massive shape of a biplane from where he stood, as well as a silhouette of a man standing over it. He cursed to himself and kicked the wood of the deck.  _Bloody France. It’s got to be him._    
  
The pilot had not yet turned around to look at him, seemingly concentrating too much on his plane to notice England’s presence. He was close enough to make out the details on the back of the man’s bomber jacket- a fifty, embroidered in white leather. Knee-high black boots were worn over his dark brown pants, and England knew that when he turned around, he’d be wearing the same vest and tie under his jacket that all military aviators wore. He could make out short, golden blond hair peeking out from his aviator’s cap, and his goggles were propped up on top of his head.   
  
 _Not France._  He scowled nonetheless, and silently pulled his rapier out of its sheath. Swift as a fox and twice as silent, England stepped forward and pressed the cold steel of the blade against the pilot’s neck.   
  
In the quiet, he could almost hear the way the heartbeat of the aviator sped up. He was terrified.  _Well, good_. England watched as the other man slowly turned his head, revealing to him a very young face. There was grease smeared across his forehead and around his eyes, almost comedically, as if he’d stuck his hand in the engine and then wiped the sweat off his brow, replacing it with grease. England was struck by his wide blue eyes, bright and expressive beneath wire-rimmed glasses. He didn’t look scared. In fact, he looked relieved.  
  
England scowled further and put a bit more pressure on the rapier. “I thought you aviator military scum knew to stay the hell off of my ship.”   
  
And then the soldier did the least expected thing England could imagine. He smiled, and there was even a light laugh to his voice as he spoke. “Oh good. I was so afraid you were a ghost!”  
  
England nearly dropped the rapier but instead just let it fall limp to his side. “A ghost?” he asked dryly.   
  
The pilot smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head with one of his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I mean I radioed ahead and no one picked up. So I thought this was maybe… a ghost ship, you know?”   
  
He caught the flash of the double bar insignia on his chest and rolled his eyes, wondering about the military’s standards these days. “You’re joking? A captain?” he asked skeptically.  
  
“Captain Jones of the thirty-fifth unit of the Aquila division of the World Aviation Force!” he replied, enthused.   
  
“Well good for you. I don’t call military by their titles. It’s hardly worth the trouble to call them by their name.” England rolled his eyes and stiffened his grip on the rapier.   
  
The aviator stomped his feet and pointed his finger at England. “I’m a hero! Where do you get off acting like you’re better than me?”  
  
“Because I am. The sky-pirates who are left have remained independent to their own devices. We won’t become puppets of the World Military. That makes us better.” He sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. “Anyway, since you’re too daft to realize it, I was asking your name.”  
  
He blinked. “Oh uh, America. It’s America.”   
  
England leaned up against a wood beam and smirked. “Okay America. You may call  _me_  Captain. Captain England Kirkland of the Taliesin Pirates, to be precise.”   
  
America shrugged. “Okay Caaaptaaaiinn Kirkland of the Taliesen Pirates.” His expression was what England might chance to call devious.  
  
“ _Captain_ , you idiot,” he snapped.  
  
America crossed his arms, leaning up against his plane. “That’s what I said. Do you want me to salute too?”  
  
England slammed his hand against the beam. “"This is MY ship. You call me by what I tell you, or I’ll string you up and---"  
  
“A hero can never be below a pirate,” America reasoned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
England stepped away from the beam and walked toward America.“How heroic will you be when I throw your damned arse off this ship?” He paused for effect. “It’s a very long way down.”   
  
America leaned back further, his hands behind his head, against the cockpit. “I have a parachute! Although I’d rather not lose my plane.”   
  
“Bollocks. If I throw you right now, there’s no way you could grab your ‘chute in time.”   
  
America slipped his hand into the cockpit behind him and came out with the parachute. He waved it above his head. “Throw me off and I’ll take you with me. Happy landings for both of us.”   
  
England gritted his teeth. The gas lanterns lit America well, and he was infuriated to see that the young aviator looked not in the least bit intimidated by his threats. On the contrary, he looked amused. “Why are you not at all scared? You’re on the ship of one of the world’s most illustrious sky-pirate captains, and you’re amused. Is your skull just too thick to comprehend the danger?”   
  
America started laughing now. “It’s just… it’s just so hard to take you seriously in pajamas and a crooked hat. Oh and because heroes don't get scared.”   
  
England’s eyes widened, taken aback. His face flushed, and he shook his head, willing it to stop. “You fucking moron!” He ran toward America and pressed the younger man’s hands against his plane, holding them there with all of his might. England was shorter than him and far slighter in figure, but his strength was nothing to scoff at.   
  
America winced, wondering if the pressure against his wrists would leave a bruise. For a moment he actually looked scared, but he regained his composure. “What the hell, England?”  
  
“ _Captain_ , you aviator filth.” He leaned up to his full stature, and then pulled the pilot down to meet his gaze. The two were mere centimeters apart, and England’s breath was hot against America’s face. The heat combined with the chill of the night air was fogging up America’s glasses, and the feather on his hat tickled his forehead. “Now you are here, on my ship, the Victoria. I don’t care how many honors or awards or shiny pins you’ve been given by the World Military. It’s  _my_  ship and you are under  _my_  command as long as you are on it!”   
  
America gulped. “Oooh, England,” he said his name intentionally, gaining an odd sort of enjoyment from riling him up. “So pushy!”   
  
England’s cheeks reddened at America’s tone of voice. “Do all aviators have filthy minds like France or something?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.  
  
He blinked and gestured with his hands as much as he could, considering they were pinned. “I didn’t mean it that way at all and--- hey wait, you know France, France Bonnefoy?”   
  
England loosened his grip on America’s wrists. “What pirate doesn’t know France? For better or worse, usually for worse. He’s always popping up on ships or at ports, ‘looking for booty’ as he says.” He turned slightly green at the thought.  
  
America cracked a grin and laughed. “Ahaha that so sounds like France! That bastard.” He paused. “But that does mean he’s going on a lot of unscheduled flights. I might have to talk to him. I’m his commander after all.” He thrust out his chest, showing off his shiny new rank.   
  
The pirate exhaled deeply and removed his hands from America, putting them on his hips. “Wait, you’re in charge of France?” He nodded, and England almost felt sorry for him. He shook his head. “That’s enough about France. Why are you here anyway?”   
  
He turned back to his plane’s engine and held up the flashtorch. “Just need to fix my plane! Didn’t really want it to crash into the ocean, so I landed it here. Like I said, I  _did_  send out a radio to you all…”   
  
England scratched his head, leaning back against the wooden beam he’d used earlier. “Bloody hell, Prussia. He must have fallen asleep AGAIN.” America blinked in confusion, as England turned around, facing the door to below deck. “PRUSSSIAAAA!!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating in the open sky. It echoed back to him, and he shouted the name once again for good measure.   
  
A few moments later, the sound of a gunshot startled America. England seemed unphased by it, and he also just let out an exasperated sigh at what followed. “Prussia, you fucking moron!” yelled a new voice. Another gunshot.   
  
England was about to head to where the ruckus was coming from, when a blond and very angry looking man skidded out onto the deck, rifle in one hand. With his other hand, he was dragging a white-haired man behind him by the scruff of his collar.   
  
“Switzerland and Prussia,” England introduced. “Switzerland is… my gunner, as is obvious.”  
  
“Captain, sir. Prussia fell asleep on watch again.” The gunner gritted his teeth. “Why the hell do you even bother with him?”   
  
“Because I’m awesome,” quipped Prussia. Switzerland gripped the other man’s collar tighter.  
  
“Great, now we've got  _two_  idiots up here proclaiming their greatness.” England rubbed his forehead. “This is Prussia. My first mate, regretfully. He was probably on the piss all night and fell asleep.”  
  
“How much did you drink anyway? You reek,” Switzerland mumbled to the other pirate.   
  
Prussia shrugged. “Dunno. I didn’t count this time.”   
  
America snickered. “Hah, and I thought my crew was trouble.”  
  
“You have France, and besides Prussia is only my first mate because he won some ridiculous bet.”   
  
Prussia had writhed from Switzerland’s grasp and was now standing up, brushing the dust off his deep blue breeches and vest. A white peasant shirt hung sloppily underneath. Switzerland was dressed similarly, but in green and with a thick leather belt around his shoulder. It was filled with ammunition. It appeared that England was the only one of the pirates to run around in his pajamas.   
  
“A bet?” America inquired, blue eyes curious.  
  
“I drank ‘em under the table,” Prussia bragged. “He thought he could outdrink me, but I was still going strong when he started rambling about fairies and unicorns and crying about how they were his only friends.”   
  
“Sod off, Prussia!”  
  
“Wait, you were making fun of me for ghosts and you did  _that_?” America was laughing now.  
  
“I was drunk!” England argued feebly. His face reddened in embarrassment.   
  
Prussia surveyed the biplane and the young man next to it. “So we’ve been talking a while, but you still haven’t introduced the boy toy.” As if in response, Switzerland cocked his gun and aimed it pointedly at the military insignia on America’s chest.  
  
“THIS IDIOT?” England snapped, motioning wildly with his hands. “He’s just some pilot who landed on the ship to make repairs.”   
  
America stepped forward and pointed to his chest defensively. “There’s no way in hell I’d choose to even be seen with a pirate, let alone…”  
  
Prussia smirked and snickered, raising his arms and shrugging. “I don’t know. I mean Switzerland drags me out here and you’re here in your pajamas with a reasonably attractive aviator. Didn’t know military was your type but…  _you know._ ”  
  
England was at Prussia’s throat, grabbing him by the front collar and lifting him off of his feet. “"Prussia, damn it. By god, I swear I'll tie you to the mast and leave you there for days.”   
  
“My plane was dying. I needed to land it quickly,” America reasoned. “And I’m a captain by the way, Captain Jones of the thirty-fifth unit of the Aquila division of the World Aviation Force!” Prussia and Switzerland both looked unimpressed. “…Just America is fine though.”   
  
England dropped Prussia rather unceremoniously and stepped between the gunner and first mate duo and the pilot. “All right, that’s enough. I’m bloody exhausted, and Sealand and Liechtenstein will wake up and never get back to sleep if we keep up this racket.”  
  
Switzerland nodded silently and turned around, cocking his gun over his shoulder and giving America one last weary glare before walking away. Prussia snickered and muttered something under his breath about ‘England needing some time alone with his guest’ before running away. He closed the door to below deck behind him and Switzerland, leaving America and England alone again.   
  
England cursed to himself and rubbed his forehead.   
  
“Your crew is completely incompetent!” America stated, matter of factly. “Although I suppose that’s good since you’re pirates. Probably best you suck at it.”   
  
The pirate captain gritted his teeth in attempt to contain his anger. “Prussia is an imbecile, but he’s a brilliant swordsman. Switzerland is a nutter, but he’s the best gunner I could hope for.”  
  
“Oh well, my team is competent AND we’re heroes, so…” America was leaning back against his plane again.  
  
England rolled his eyes. “You are absolutely insufferable, and by the way, you’ve got grease all over your face.” America’s eyes widened in realization, and he removed his glasses and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now if you want to repair your plane, I’ll let you. On two conditions.”  
  
“I don’t make deals with pirates.”  
  
“Get stuffed! Christ, it's nothing terrible,” England grumbled. “The first condition is that you don’t, under any circumstances, get us in trouble with the military or law enforcement once you leave. You leave, and you don’t tell anyone to come after us. Don't breathe a word about our whereabouts.”  
  
“You’re not going to be doing any raids or stealing or anything tonight, are you?” America queried.  
  
England stomped his foot. “No, you knob-end. We’re not nicking anything tonight. We’re almost five hundred kilometers from even an island. I’m going to sleep.”  
  
“Okay, fine then.”  
  
“Secondly.” England held up two fingers. “You are to be gone by morning. I don’t want to see military scum on my prized ship for any longer than I have to.”  
  
“Your loss then, ‘cuz I’m pretty great.” He dodged as England tried to kick him in the shin. “But fine. I’ll be gone by morning.”   
  
England nodded. “Good, I’ll be glad to get rid of you. Night then.” And before America could reply, he’d departed under deck with a wave.   
  
Sighing to himself, America turned on his flashtorch and went back to work on his beloved plane. He had an extra of the belt he’d snapped, so he quickly outfitted the plane with a new one, then attempted to figure out what else had happened. He coughed as the steam entered his nostrils when he stuck his upper body deep within the machinery. His legs were hanging out the back, kicked slightly off the ground, which would have looked amusing enough to anyone who was watching him. He felt like he must have spent an hour down there, finagling with the machinery and the bits and bobs that made it all work. And indeed, when he looked at his precious stopwatch, it was three a.m. He’d been working on the plane for about two hours. His eyelids felt heavy and he suppressed a yawn. Even the cutting chill of the high altitude weather did little to keep him awake. He shivered and zipped his bomber jacket up all the way. America had no trouble staying awake while flying. The thrill of it, a few bottles of his favorite caffeinated cola, and his records always kept him going. But here it was silent, and there was only the wind in the sails and the slight lull of the ship as it rode across the night sky. He sat down next to his plane, the engine’s steam mechanism winding down from the last test America had run on the new belt. Between the soft patter of the plane dying off and the sway of the ship, it was only a matter of minutes before it lulled him to sleep.   
  
America’s eyes slid open to meet with the full brunt of bright morning sunlight. It was just past dawn, he knew right away. He'd flown enough early mornings to recognize it. The sun beamed through a cloudless sky, and it would have been beautiful had it not been practically blinding him. He yawned. Then he cursed.  _You are to be gone by morning_ , he recalled England’s words. The pirate captain was obnoxious as all get out, and he’d have loved more than most anything to duke it out with him. But he had a mission in Medved, and that was his priority. He hadn’t even finished fixing the plane before he fell asleep. Kicking himself inwardly, America stood up. His joints hurt from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. It was then that he noticed that something had slipped off of his front. He picked it up. A blanket. He vaguely recalled shivering the night before, although it was warm enough now. America ran his fingers across the blanket- cream with gold embroidery along the sides. A unicorn and a lion met up at a crest in the middle. It was warm, but it was also valuable. He bit his lip and pondered where it had come from, although he had a pretty good idea.   
  
And when his finger slipped across a variance in the embroidery in the upper right corner, he adjusted his glasses and read the tiny letters initialed there in fine gold thread- E.K. He wondered why he wasn’t surprised. 


	3. The Fob Watch

“So what are these, new ammo for Switzerland’s guns?” asked Prussia as he bit into a rather hard and blackened breakfast roll. England shot a glare at him and took a sip of his morning tea. The table was set for five, and four of those five were picking at the food in front of them, occasionally mustering up enough courage to take a bite. In addition to charred rolls, their captain had also made up some sort of crispy crumbly meat that everyone assumed must have been bacon at one point. Well, at least the tea was good.   
  
“I thought Liechtenstein was in charge of cooking,” Switzerland said, looking balefully at England.   
  
Liechtenstein glanced down shyly at her hands. “I’m sorry brother. I didn’t wake up early enough today, so Captain cooked breakfast instead.” Sealand didn’t say anything, but merely scowled at his food. England would give him extra chores if he dared insult it.   
  
“If you don’t like my cooking, I’ll just not make any for you next time,” England snapped, then shoved a forkful of once-bacon in his mouth. “You want something posh? Don’t live on a blasted pirate ship.”   
  
“We don’t want something posh,” Prussia grumbled. “We just want something edible.” England slammed down his fork and stood up, walking to the counter to get another cup of tea. “I noticed that aviator is still on the deck.” No one could miss the wink-wink-nudge-nudge in Prussia’s tone. “’Course you  _were_  up there in your pajamas so…”  
  
“He fell asleep up there, I suppose,” England responded casually, stirring his tea. “And I was in my pajamas because  _someone_  who was on watch duty fell asleep and I didn’t have time to change.”   
  
“Seems like you’d want him gone as soon as possible,” Sealand pointed out. Both he and Liechtenstein had been filled in by Prussia and Switzerland respectively that morning. “I noticed he was wearing your blanket!”  
  
England flushed and turned away from his crew. “Just didn’t want some military aviator catching pneumonia on my ship,” he scoffed.”Who knows what kind of trouble that could lead to.” He sighed. “I’ll go check on him right now. Tell him to get his arse off my ship.”   
  
Prussia stifled laughter and Switzerland rolled his eyes.   
  


* * *

  
  
By the time England got up to the deck, America was already back at work on his plane. The blanket had been thrown down beside him, although America had at least had the courtesy to try not to step on it. This time, America heard England’s footsteps. He turned around and frowned nervously. “I told you to be gone by morning. Too daft to tell time?”   
  
America scratched his head and yawned. “I fell asleep. Probably ‘cuz this place is so boring.”   
  
England crossed his arms. “You almost done then? I’ve still half a mind to throw you over--- “  
  
“Well you gave me that blanket, right? That doesn’t seem an action from the kind of guy who wants to kill me.” America shrugged. “’Course you are a pirate, so maybe I’m wrong.”   
  
England’s face reddened, and he reached down to snatch the blanket. “Th-that has nothing to do with anything!” He clenched the fabric of the blanket in his hands. “I hate you! You come onto my ship in the middle of the night and just cause trouble and act arrogant as you like, as if you’re sodding invincible. You military types are all the--- “  
  
“What do you have against military anyway?” America inquired. “Is it just that we’re on the side of justice and you’re a criminal?”   
  
England stomped forward. “Maybe someday you’ll understand. You’ll see that you’re not a hero at all, and it will pop that ridiculous ego of yours.”   
  
America’s eyes widened and he gaped for a moment, composure momentarily shaken. Then he shook his head and laughed. “Yeah right England!”   
  
“The world’s not so black and white and… fucking hell, why am I even bothering with you?” he interrupted himself. There was an awkward silence between the two. England looked up toward the sky, watching the way the sails of his grand ship waved in the early morning breeze. He appeared to be utterly transfixed. America watched him, confusion in his expression. England had, as of so far, been full of empty threats. But even America was perceptive enough to tell that his anger and bitterness had been genuine.   
  
“This ship means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” America finally broke the silence and asked.   
  
England was startled out of his reverie by his comment. He scowled and shoved a small paper bag toward America, not once making eye contact while he did so. “It’s breakfast. Be gone in an hour.” Then he walked away, leaving a bewildered America behind.   
  
America just blinked, holding the bag limply in his hand. “Wha- I just asked him a question.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The Aeronaut took an hour and fifteen minutes longer to fix, but England hadn’t come out at the hour mark to threaten him. In fact, after he’d stormed off, he hadn’t come out at all. It all left America in a sour mood. He wasn’t able to complete his flyover, as he wouldn’t even arrive in Medved until late that night now. In addition, he needed to have Canada look at his plane before he flew a long distance trip again. Right now he was heading back to Aquila. He’d have to attempt the flyover again on Sunday. When he’d radioed ahead after leaving the Victoria, that had been the consensus.  
  
Then there was England. The pirate captain completely infuriated him. He was a pirate, which was irritating enough. But it was more than that. It was the way that he was friendly enough one minute, and a total ass the next. It was the way he’d had the gall to question America’s very morale. Mostly, it was the way that America found it so very difficult to hate him. He gritted his teeth and put a record on to take his mind off of him. It was a few minutes later that America remembered the paper bag England had given him, supposedly filled with breakfast. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if England had poisoned the food, but he brushed that off and opened up the bag, pulling out a piece of food that vaguely resembled a hockey puck and a bunch of crumbled pieces of what he presumed to be a sort of meat. Warily, he bit into the biscuit and cringed. “S—so terrible!” But he was voraciously hungry, so he ate it all anyway.  
  
When he was done, he worked to clear his mind again. He didn’t want to think about the previous night. Instead he occupied himself with thoughts of the upcoming reconnaissance mission. He’d never worked with Major Germany (what was his last name? He’d never found out) and Lieutenant Vargas before, but they had seemed like the heroic type. It would be his first official group mission as a captain, and he was beside himself with anticipation. Three records later, America went to check the time. He’d told the base he’d radio ahead about half an hour before he was due to arrive, and just by looking at the time, he’d know how much longer he had left to fly. He reached down to his belt to look at the familiar fob watch, and his eyes widened when he realized it wasn’t there.  _It must be somewhere in the cockpit_ , America considered.  _I won’t be able to look around until I get back though. Guess I’ll radio ahead when it seems about right…_  
  
He put his hand over his eyes as he changed directions, the continent visible in the distance letting him know that it was time to turn toward the base. The now-late morning sunlight was unusually bright and hot. He was sweating in his bomber jacket, so he slipped it off and put it behind his seat. England came back to mind, and he thought of his words about not being a hero. Preposterous, of course. America knew he was one. But there had been something niggling at the back of his mind. The Kosmider. The thought of this group blowing up merchant ships caused bile to rise in America’s throat. But apparently this knowledge wasn’t something the military felt necessary to tell him, and he simply could not understand why, even with the reasoning Germany provided. It was only through Veneziano’s outside connection that they found it out. And ironically, his connection was with a pirate. What else did he not know? America felt a headache coming on at it all. Even flying felt unpleasant to him right now, and he couldn’t wait to get back to the base. Usually the heat wouldn’t be a bother, but it, coupled with everything else, just frayed at his nerves even more. He was a captain. He had work to do. He had people to save. He didn’t have time to question.  
  
As he was arriving at the base later on, he had a sudden unpleasant thought.  _Did I leave my watch on England’s ship?_

* * *

  
  
England had spent the last hour putting his crew to work. The ship was a mess, and he may have been a pirate, but he couldn’t stand for things not to be neat. They had nothing to do and no plans for the day. It was to have been a lazy Saturday for the crew, and England had little doubt they’d been looking forward to it. But he was unquestionably irritated and irrevocably moody. He took that out on his crew, and they were put hard to work. Prussia was scrubbing the mast, Switzerland had been put in charge of cleaning the deck, and Sealand was hard at work in the kitchen. He’d let Liechtenstein off the hook. He could never quite bring himself to be forceful toward the young girl. She had volunteered to clean up the crew’s quarters though, which he allowed her to do.  
  
The captain was not working. It wasn’t that he refused to do any chores, it was just that he needed time to think. And that was the other reason he’d sent his crew off to clean house. They wouldn’t bother him now. He was sitting on his bed, head in his hands. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and sighed.  
  
His quarters were immaculately clean, and he generally forbade his crew from entering them (not that it stopped them, they still barged in uninvited quite often). He had nothing to hide, really. He just made it clear that when he was in his room, he wanted to be alone. The quarters were well decorated. Rich green and gold were the predominant shades, his bed spread and a few tapestries featuring them. The furniture was all done in red cherry wood. The embroidered blanket he’d loaned America was folded over the back of a wooden chair now. He’d made it himself a couple of years back. His crew made fun of his needlepoint hobby, but he enjoyed it and found it relaxing.  
  
England lifted his head and glanced over at the white and gold blanket, an expression of disdain crossing his features. Prussia was never going to let the incident with America go, and he knew it would be the brunt of jokes for months from now on. But that’s not what was bugging him. America was. He wanted to smack that smug expression off of his face, so confident in the good of what he was doing in the military. How could one man be so stupid? But he was almost naïve enough that England found it hard to muster the level of anger toward him that the World Military generally brought out in him. He was so completely non-corrupt, so genuine in his convictions, that England almost felt pity for him. It was utterly frustrating. Hate would have been so much easier.  
  
He opened up his hand, which had hitherto been clenched around an object. England frowned as he ran his fingers over the object, a fob watch that he’d found on the deck after America had departed. It was his, he knew it. That bastard had left something behind, and England prayed to God that he would not come back to pick it up.  
  
 _This ship means a lot to you, doesn’t it?_    
  
The most non-malicious comment possible, and it had wholly ruined his day. He threw the watch over onto the chair, right below the lion and unicorn crested blanket. England ignored the loud clunk of it smacking against the wood.  
  
He was about to leave the room, thinking that being out on the deck would clear his mind, when he heard his radio crackle. It was the captain’s radio, on a different frequency than the one America had contacted. Only a select few knew how to reach it, and they were almost all fellow pirates. It wasn’t used often. He whipped around and ran over to his desk as a voice began to speak.  
  
“England, England are you there?” He recognized the voice immediately. Captain Carriedo of the Nuberu Pirates, the closest ally the Taliesen pirates had.  
  
England quickly snatched up the radio. “Spain, what is it?”   
  
Spain’s voice was usually light and filled with laughter. He was the most carefree pirate captain England had ever chanced upon. But right now he sounded panicked, and the lilt in his tone was gone. “We’ve just had a skirmish with a few zeppelins from the Kosmider.”   
  
England frowned, his expression grave. “Fuck, where are you?”  
  
“We’re fine!” his voice rose in timbre. “But England, we’re just right between the Tsuru islands and Luong. That means that the Kosmider is moving west. They’re journeying further from Medved by the day.”   
  
England punched his hand onto the desk. “And what’s the military doing? Nothing, of course.”   
  
“They might actually be doing something!” Spain replied. No pirate loved the military, but Spain didn’t have the deep hatred England did. “Romano told me his brother is up to something. His brother is in the military, you know. A lieutenant, actually.”   
  
“Too little, too late,” England sighed, resting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “How easy would it have been for the military to nip this in the bud? They’ve been attacking ships for over a month. But oh, until recently they were only pirate ships, so why bother?”  
  
Spain laughed. “England, would you have accepted help from the military anyway?”   
  
England’s mind conjured up an image of America, smiling and leaning against his biplane as if his life were a constant crusade of goodness. “N-no! Not on your life!”  
  
“But really,” Spain continued, the radio crackling between words, “we’re okay. We had to do some minimal repairs, and there’s a few small injuries, but everyone’s fine. We think we lost them too, so we’ll be heading westward now. Maybe we’ll run into you?”   
  
England nodded, although Spain could not see it, of course. “Right. Hope there’s nothing else dodgy on the way for you.”  
  
“Spain, hurry the hell up here!” commanded a new voice.   
  
“Ah, Romano, I’m coming,” he shouted back.   
  
“Spain,” England began. “You be careful. The skies may no longer be ours if the Kosmider succeeds.”  
  
Spain laughed again. “Ah England. The skies were never ours. They belong to everyone. Hasta luego!” And with that, he ended the radio transmission.   
  


* * *

  
  
America cursed to himself as he searched the cockpit for his missing fob watch. His fear had been realized. It was indeed, nowhere to be found. He distinctly remembered looking at it on the ship, so that’s the only other place it could have been. The watch was precious to him, his grandfather’s watch and a family heirloom. His great grandparents had given it to his grandfather before he’d been drafted into the World Military half a century before. And America had been given it when he’d joined the military after high school. There was only one object America treasured more than the watch, and that was his plane. “Well at least I still have that!” he said to himself, unconvinced. He sighed and rested his head against the side of the plane, then gently banged it against the metal three times.   
  
“Dammit all. I’ll take a detour when I do the flyover tomorrow,” he murmured. America felt a tad ill at the idea of seeing England again, but for his watch, he decided it was worth it. He could tune into the same frequency he’d used before and find them again. However, as he’d already screwed up one mission, he had to think of a good excuse if they realized he was taking a bit longer than usual to get to Medved. He was contemplating what to say if he were asked when Canada walked in.  
  
“America, I heard you screwed up your plane again,” Canada said, exasperated. “Honestly you are terrible.”  
  
Canada could have been America’s twin. And in fact, they were cousins, close since birth. The two looked almost identical, except for America’s hair being shorter than his. In personality however, they couldn’t have been more different.   
  
“Ah Canada, but that’s why I have you!” He smacked his cousin on the back. Canada winced.   
  
“Geez, America!” He gritted his teeth. Canada took a moment to survey America. He looked no worse for the wear, and had put forward his usual enthusiastic attitude. But there was a little less bounce in his step, not as much of his usual unflappable attitude in even his very posture. There was also the fact that he had been banging his head against his plane when Canada had entered. No one knew America better than Canada, for better or for worse. “Something wrong?”   
  
America blinked in surprise. “No, no… I’m fine.”  
  
Canada looked him up and down again. “Hey where’s your watch?” Not since he’d been gifted with it upon joining the military had Canada seen America without that watch looped around his belt.   
  
America frowned. “Ah yeah, that.” He looked away, back at his plane.  _I could tell Canada what happened. Canada could cover for me. There’s no way he’d turn it down… and who would suspect the mechanic?_  And America realized that he wanted to tell someone what had happened, even if he didn’t go into all the gory detail and detailed personal reflection that had occurred on the plane ride home. He just thought maybe, maybe getting it all out would make him feel better. “Hey no one else is coming by anytime soon, are they?”  
  
Canada shook his head. “Not that I know of.”  
  
America nodded, and then placed his hand on Canada’s shoulder. “If I tell you something, can you promise to keep it secret? I don’t want anyone to know what happened last night. It’s… well, it’s just annoying me a lot okay? Plus, yeah I did lose my watch. It’s about that too.”   
  
Canada frowned. “America I’ve kept secrets for you for years, ever since you broke my mom’s vase and I took the blame.” He rolled his eyes inwardly in remembrance. America had gotten off scot-free and Canada had been grounded for three days. “So yes, I’ll keep your secrets.”   
  
America walked over to the table they had set up in the hangar and sat down. Canada followed. “I have to go off course tomorrow on my flyover. It’s my watch. I lost it, and well… I guess I should start off by telling you how.” And Canada listened intently as America told him the story of his experience the night before and that morning. Of the Taliesin Pirates and their captain, of England’s harsh words, and of America’s fledgling concerns about the Kosmider. 


	4. Deals and Promises

Lithuania’s palms were sweaty, and he twisted them together as he walked down the ship’s outside corridor. The Krakus was a small old merchant sky-ship, and it creaked with every breeze that whipped against its flanks and sails. The large steel chute in the center of the ship violently shot out black smoke and steam, causing the ship to clatter and clink with every puff. But it wasn’t the dodgy old ship that Lithuania was perspiring in anxiety about, it was the visit he was about to make to the merchant that owned the ship. Poland was Lithuania’s oldest and dearest friend. Always supportive, always there, ever since childhood. But Lithuania was the one who had been recruited by the Kosmider, forced into his role amongst the zeppelin fleet after being led there by a litany of false promises. He hadn’t seen Poland since. It hadn’t been difficult to convince Russia to dock his zeppelin next to the Krakus for supplies. Lithuania assured him of Poland’s reputation of neutrality and Russia arranged a meeting with the merchant. He would let them purchase supplies without asking questions. And he was out of vodka right now, which Poland had for sale in spades. “An honest tradesman is so hard to find,” Russia had said upon agreeing to Lithuania’s suggestion. He knew that ‘honest tradesman’ meant two completely different things to them. To Russia it was someone who would keep his dirty secrets if they chanced upon them.   
  
Poland wouldn’t actually keep the Kosmider’s secrets, and that was the point. Russia trusted Lithuania more than anyone else, if what they had could be called trust. It was more as if Russia was confident enough that he’d frightened Lithuania into never being anything but dutiful. Lithuania narrowed his eyes and frowned, stiffening his shoulders in resolve. He was wrong. Lithuania turned the doorknob and opened the door, greeting Poland with a smile of pure relief, a smile at seeing a friend so long missed.   
  
Within moments, he found himself in a bone crushing hug. Poland was beaming and chatting animatedly, never even stopping to take a breath. “I totally missed you so much. How have you been Lithuania? I’m like, so sorry for what’s been happening to you. Hey your boss isn’t coming aboard is he? He just sent you right?” A weak nod from Lithuania. “Good. Absolute perfection. We’ll have tons of time to chat then! I already have his order ready, so we can like just pretend we’re using this time to get it together and stuff.”  
  
Lithuania’s smile grew. “Ah Poland, I see you haven’t changed at all.” He patted his companion on the back and pulled away from the hug. Poland still held his forearms. “I’m as well as I can be, I suppose. Mr. Russia is… growing more worrisome by the day.”   
  
Poland surveyed Lithuania’s appearance. He was world-weary, his green eyes weren’t as bright as they used to be and his face had a look of permanent tiredness. His uniform was black from head to toe, the embellishments and buttons done in silver. It didn’t fit his good-natured worrywart of a childhood friend. He frowned. “Did you just come here to pick up stuff and talk?” Lithuania shook his head in the negative. “You can totally always count on me, so spill what you want to say, okay?”  
  
He sighed and sat down in the cushy chair. It had a pink blanket thrown over one of the arms that Lithuania recognized as being Poland’s security blanket as a child. He smiled in remembrance and picked at the fabric absently. “I can’t ask you to do this… I shouldn’t,” he spoke softly. Poland sat down next to him and gave him a confused look. “So let’s just talk Poland, let’s just enjoy the time we have together?” Lithuania felt Poland’s hand on his. He was holding it down with a substantial amount of pressure. He looked up at the other man and their eyes met. Poland looked intense, far more serious than his usual carefree and bubble headed expression.   
  
“What did you come to ask me, Liet?” he used Lithuania’s childhood nickname.   
  
He looked down at his chest and grimaced. “I wanted to tell someone about the Kosmider. I want someone to help me take them down.” He paused. “You’re a merchant. You have connections and could give information to everyone- military, pirates, other merchants, anyone.” He looked up to Poland, his green eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “I’m willing to risk my life for this, but I don’t want to ask you to do the same!” He shook his head fiercely. “I shouldn’t have set this meeting up. I didn’t think it through.”   
  
Poland pushed himself out of his chair and stood up, standing over the other man. He took his head in his hands and leaned down, planting a kiss on Lithuania’s forehead. Lithuania’s face glowed scarlet, and Poland smiled at him as he pulled away, kneeling down in front of the chair and moving his hands to his shoulders. “The Kosmider is completely dangerous to all of us. If we don’t work against Russia like now, we’ll run out of time. Tell me all of the juicy important stuff. I’ll have it spread around the world like hot gossip in no time, and I promise I’ll do it in a way that no one will suspect you.”   
  
Lithuania bit his lip and nodded, twiddling his fingers in his lap. “Thank you.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The crew of the Victoria could not escape England’s continuing foul mood, which bled into the next day, Sunday, as well. The chores continued, and at one point Prussia actually  _did_  end up tied to the mast (this lightened everyone’s moods considerably, everyone’s but Prussia’s of course). The only other upside of the day was that Liechtenstein was back to cooking. They were all relieved that England didn’t consider his food a punishment, because then they might still be eating it. In between barking orders and finding amusement in Prussia’s plight, England was sketching out their plans for a raid they were planning above the Dezenvòlt Islands. The skytop mansion was empty this time of year as it was a summer home. Not the most exciting of robberies, but England knew it would be easy, and the crew was running low on supplies. This would give them enough income in gold and valuables for months, and that was crucial. He had been keeping the actual piracy to a minimum since the Kosmider had made their existence known. No pirate wanted to be noticed at current, no one wanted to draw their attention.   
  
He was leaning over his drafting table, quill in hand, when he heard a sound he was hoping he would never have to hear again; a sound that filled him with discomfort and uncertainty. It was the steam engine of an Aeronaut-7300.  _No fucking way…_  England stormed up onto the deck, snatching the fob watch along the way.   
  
America was stepping out of his plane when England got up to the deck. His expression was different then when they’d first made eye contact. Now a look of anxiety spread across his countenance, and he didn’t quite strut about in the same obnoxious manner he had before.  _What’s his problem?_    
  
Before America or England could speak, Prussia’s voice piped up from his place tied to the mast. “Oh wow. Oh wow England! How do you explain this one? Return visit? He bringing you flowers?”  
  
“Belt up, Prussia!” England shouted, his cheeks burning red. “Christ almighty. That’s TWO more hours on the mast for you.”  
  
America’s face broke into a smile. “You put your crew in time-out?”  
  
England approached him, hands on his hips in an attempt to look intimidating. “No, just Prussia. Now what the _hell_  are you doing here?!”  
  
He scratched the back of his head. “Ah, you don’t know? I… left something.”   
  
England could have sworn he heard Prussia catcalling in the background. He ignored it, but decided to lower his voice so Prussia couldn’t hear from then on out. “Sod off. I told you, you had to leave. How in your empty head does that mean ‘come back the next day’?” He crossed his arms over his chest and pointedly looked away.  
  
America shrugged. “Doesn’t, and do you think I wanted to come back to this crapfest? Your ship is horrible and rickety and full of pirates. It’s the last place I want to be.”  
  
England stomped over and got in America’s face. “Don’t.insult.my.ship.” His voice was cold steel, hard and frosty, like nothing he’d ever heard from the other man before. This threat was serious. America's blue eyes widened and he simply nodded; a move that surprised England. “What’s wrong with you anyway? You don’t seem  _quite_  as obnoxious as you were yesterday.”   
  
“I’m fine!” America snapped. “And even if I weren’t, as if I’d tell  _you_  what’s wrong.”  
  
England stepped away from America and gritted his teeth. “You want your blasted watch, don’t you?” He reached into his pocket and took it out, holding it up by the chain in front of him. America made a grab for it, and England pulled back and held it against his chest. “No, I’m not just giving it to you. You leave something on a pirate ship, it becomes ours.”  
  
“I don’t follow your rules!” America retorted, his tone raw. “That watch is MINE.”  
  
“Heh. It really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” England toyed with the chain. “In that case, let’s make another deal.”   
  
America stiffened and panic flashed across his features. “No. I won’t.” The watch was dear to him, a sign of his own personal honor and the honor of his family. He wasn’t going to get it back with a dirty trade.  
  
England ran his fingers across the cracked glass and sighed. “Fine, I’ll keep it then. Won’t fetch much, but it still works, at the least. Might be able to throw it in a lot.”  
  
“No amount of scummy money you could get for it would be… worth more than…” he interrupted himself, realizing he was just giving England more leverage against him. “I won’t make another deal with a pirate! You’re criminals, I’m above all of that.”  
  
There was a vulnerability to America’s tone. He’d not seen him this upset before. Annoyed sure, but here he was genuinely horrified at the thought of losing his watch, albeit attempting to hide it behind a façade of anger. England ran his fingers over the watch front again. It was a good watch in its time, but it had lost its luster over the years and the cracked glass would make it difficult to sell for even a few shillings. It wasn’t old enough to be considered a valuable antique. Its sentimental value was obviously far greater. “I won’t make you do anything _unheroic_ ,” he emphasized the last word in a manner of mocking. “Do you think I’m going to ask you to help us nick something or what? I wouldn’t trust you with the smallest of treasures, you idiot.”   
  
“I won--- “  
  
“Shut up. This is from captain to captain, all right?” England scowled inwardly, loathing the idea of putting himself on the same level as America. “You’re military and I hate that, I hate you.”  
  
“Yeah, I noticed that,” America mumbled.   
  
England stepped closer to America again and began tossing the watch back and forth from hand to hand. “I want to be able to call you, once. I want to know that wherever you are, you’ll drop what you’re doing and come to my ship.”   
  
“Wha---?”  
  
“It’s a test,” England continued. “Are you a hero, America, or are you just someone who does what the military commands of you? Prove me wrong, America. Show me that there’s some value to you after all.”   
  
America inhaled sharply, his eyes growing even wider than they had been a minute before. “I… don’t need to prove a thing to you. I know what I am.” There was a shake to his voice, an obvious betrayal to his confidence.   
  
“Do you?”  
  
America shut his eyes and shook his head, then smacked his palm on top of his plane. “Fuck you England. Where do you get off complaining about what I do, when you’re a pirate for a living?”  
  
England smirked. “Oh. Well I never claimed to be a hero, did I?”   
  
America punched him, his fist slamming straight into his cheek.   
  
England cursed loudly, reeling backwards from the blow and taking a moment to regain his balance. He wiped blood from the corner of his lips, where he’d bitten the side of his mouth, then rubbed his cheek, where a purple bruise would surely be blooming soon. “Blimey! Have you gone completely off your head?”  
  
He looked at America. He was standing stiff straight, his hands to his side and his eyes downcast. His mouth had formed into a hard line. “Wh-what do you want me to do again?”  
  
England blinked in surprise. “Um well, in exchange for your watch, I want you to make a promise, a pledge. You will come one time when I call you on your radio. You will help us in whatever we ask of you, which will  _not_  be piracy.”  
  
America nodded; the gesture so small that England could barely make it out. He held out his hand slowly, as if it were painful and waited. England stepped forward and shook it, sealing the vow between them. Once they’d pulled away, England dropped the watch into America’s palms. He nodded a goodbye and walked away. No more words were exchanged between them, and America looped the watch onto his belt, silently stepped into his plane, and flew away. 

* * *

  
  
Japan walked into Canada’s workshop and greeted the mechanic with a small wave. “Any news from America yet?” asked Canada, looking up from a sketch he was doing. He had goggles atop his head, his face was smudged in grease, and his clothing was moist from steam. Canada loved to create things. He had piles of notebooks dedicated to sketches and diagrams of steam powered inventions he’d likely never get around to actually constructing. Right now he was working on a sketch of what Japan assumed to be an alarm clock.   
  
“I’m sure the captain is fine,” Japan replied. “He goes on missions like this all of the time. There’s no reason to be concerned.”   
  
Canada bit his lip and nodded. He  _was_  concerned. Being privy to America’s secrets had kept him anxious all day. “Ah you’re right Japan. But you know… his plane did break down the other day.”  
  
“Well you’re the best mechanic there is, right? I bet it’s working perfectly. He should be arriving in Medved soon, and he’ll radio us. He always does.”  
  
Canada flushed at Japan’s flattery and rubbed the back of his head, a common gesture that he and America actually did have in common. His cousin did it a lot as well.   
  
“I hope the Captain finds his watch. I know it means a lot to him,” Japan mentioned casually.  
  
The mechanic’s blue eyes widened in panic. “H-h-how did you know he’d lost his watch?” he squeaked out.  
  
Japan looked bewildered. “He hasn’t been wearing it. He never takes it off, so I assumed he must have lost it.”   
  
Canada breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, okay… yeah. Well he’s looking for it.” He smacked himself inwardly. He knew he wasn’t a very good liar, and he’d freaked out upon it just being mentioned by Japan, whom he trusted.   
  
Japan creased his brows. “Something wrong with him? He seemed off yesterday." He paused. “I imagine he was just upset about losing the watch though.”  
  
Canada laughed nervously. “Yeah, that’s all it was.”  _Not his run-in with the pirates, or the fact my near unflappable cousin was obviously shaken by what had occurred._  
  
Sitting down at a chair in the workshop, Japan crossed his hands in his lap and looked down thoughtfully. “I’m glad he got the promotion. He is a good soldier, albeit none like any other I’ve met before. I hope the pressure doesn’t get to him.”  
  
“No, no… he’s doing great.” Canada sat down next to him and took his goggles off, placing them on top of the nearest table. “It’s what he’s always wanted, after all.”   
  
Japan nodded. “I heard him mumble something about pirates the other day. I thought he may have had a run in with them, but I’m pleased to know it wasn’t something so bad as that.”   
  
Canada looked away, hiding his anxious expression. “Pirates, really?” he feigned ignorance.  
  
Japan nodded. “I don’t know what he was talking about. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll find his watch.”   
  
Canada leaned on his elbow and glanced out the window, at the bright blue sky outside and the puffy cumulus clouds that filled it. “I hope he does too.” He didn’t stop worrying about his cousin until he returned from Medved the next day. No one questioned America’s slight delay, and Canada could not have been more relieved.


	5. Let's be Heroes!

Russia’s scarf shifted on his shoulders as he closed the heavy oak door behind him. He walked across the amply decorated room. Tapestries covered all four walls and a small crystal chandelier was hanging from the ceiling. The leader of the Kosmider sat down on a small couch, covered in rich maroon velvet and gold embroidery. Leaning forward, he ran his finger across the map that was splayed across the dark wood table. “Lithuania, come sit next to me?”  
  
Lithuania was standing by the door, a frown on his face. “Russia, sir. Yes.” He stepped across the room and sat down next to the light-haired man. Russia smiled.   
  
“Good, Lithuania. Now let’s look at this map together, shall we?” Lithuania stiffened as Russia slipped open a box of pushpins he had sitting next to the map. He took one out and toyed with it in his fingers for a moment before pushing it into the map.   
  
“There are only nine crews of notable sky pirates left in the world’s skies, did you know that?”  
  
“No Russia, I had no idea, sir.” He fidgeted with his hands in his lap.  
  
Russia laughed; small, quiet, deceptively gentle. “I’d not expect you to.” He stroked the blue top of the pushpin. “The Ukko Pirates out of Fálki, the rulers of the northern seas.” He paused. “Oh and there’s the Nuberu pirates, known for, of all strangeness, assisting merchants. Or maybe the Taliesin, the oldest crew in the skies, although their current captain is quite young.”   
  
Lithuania gulped. “Sir?”  
  
“We’ll soon turn nine into none. Won’t it be fun?” Lithuania didn’t reply. Russia placed his hand on Lithuania’s shoulder and smiled. “And I’ve noticed there have been some other… insects popping up lately. It seems that we’ve drawn the attention of higher powers.”  
  
“Ah?”  
  
“Oh yes,” Russia explained. “And I don’t like that very much. Right now the swarm is small, but it will only grow as time goes by. I do believe we need to move things along more quickly. Don’t you agree, Lithuania?”   
  
He merely nodded. “I---I--- “  
  
“You don’t need to answer.” He leaned down and looked at Lithuania, unblinking. He lowered his voice, “I know I’ll have your support.” Lithuania's green eyes widened. “Now, if you could just make sure everyone is aware of where we’ll be attacking tomorrow, that would be very helpful.”  
  
“Where will we b—“  
  
Russia interrupted him by placing a red pushpin into the map. “Here. There are nuisances there that we must squash.”  
  
“Y-yes… sir.”  
  
Russia stood up and stiffened, placing his hand in a fist across his chest. “ _My Vlasteliny Nebes_ , Lithuania.”   
  
Lithuania pushed himself off the couch and returned the gesture. “ _My Vlasteliny Nebes_ , Russia… sir.” 

* * *

  
  
America could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he stepped up into the cockpit of his Aeronaut. There was no reason to be nervous. He was leading a routine reconnaissance mission that was hardly going to be a huge test of his mettle. But as America instructed his team on their departure, he found that his stomach felt as if it contained a circus acrobat. They’d just left the warship fleet between Luong and Tsuru, where they’d stopped for further instruction from General Wang of the ocean fleets, before continuing onward to Medved.   
  
China’s warship army was formidable, and America found himself fighting a deep admiration for the leadership skills the general must have needed to keep a handle on his fleet. It only succeeded in making him more nervous. He wasn’t a general, but he still had more responsibility than he ever had before.   
  
Within minutes the trio of aviators had departed from the fleet. America looked back on it, watching the steam puff from the pits in the center platforms. He watched the rows that lined the side of the ships, pushing the wooden and metal behemoths forward. It wasn’t people pushing those boats forward, but complex gears and machinery. It was the only fleet left of its kind in the world. The Luong branch of the military’s attempt to update it to modern age had been mostly unsuccessful. It never caught on anywhere but Luong itself, and even there a gradual shift toward newer ships and submarines had been occurring in recent years. The ships were just another ancient machine that would someday be lost to the industrial age they’d entered over a century before.   
  
He looked away from the fleet and his mind wandered, albeit unwittingly, to something else that might soon be a relic of the past.  _The sky-pirates are a dying breed. There’s less than ten substantial crews left in the world’s skies._  America gritted his teeth and his fingers found the fob watch that hung at his belt. He thought of the promise he’d eventually have to fulfill, and how he dreaded whatever it would end up being. He thought of England’s obnoxious face as he coerced him into the deal, manipulating his own emotions against him. At least that’s how he saw it. He thought of how ever since England had spat those words about him not being a hero, he’d felt a little less confident in who he was. “Well fucking good,” he mumbled to himself. “The fewer, the better.” He pounded his fist on the dashboard and shook his head to clear it, then cleared this throat.   
  
“All right everyone. We’re over halfway there. Japan, you’ll enter from the… west,” he had to pause to look at a piece of paper he’d scribbled down notes on, “France, you’ll be coming from the east. I’ll be entering from the center.”  
  
“The backup?” France spat over the radio.   
  
“He is the captain, France,” Japan countered, the crackling of the radio making it difficult to hear his soft voice.  
  
“Speak up, Japan!” America yelled. “And yes I am the captain  _and_  the hero, so shove it, France. This isn’t a combat mission. You’re not the backup. You’re just going to be covering a different area, geez.”  
  
“Oui, oui. When do we contact the Major and Lieutenant?”  
  
“As soon as we see land. At that point, we’ll head different directions.”   
  
Both Japan and France replied in the affirmative, verifying his command. Their flight continued, the silence only broken by France making lewd comments. “Oh you should have been there when we stopped on that island and I ran off with that girl we met, Seychelles. She was…” “SHUT UP FRANCE!” “We’ll have to visit La Poule sometime. We’re far less inhibited there. Why, wearing your clothes is considered a faux pas.” “That’s such bullshit.” “Your fly is unzipped, America.” “WHAT? Wait… you can’t even see me!” This was all laid over with intermittent sighs of exasperation from Japan. It was a routine. France and America couldn’t go on a flight without France vulgarly snarking at him over the radio in attempt to rile him up.  
  
He waited until France had been quiet for several minutes before speaking. “America?” came Japan’s voice over the radio, louder now, as had been requested. “Good luck on your first mission, Captain.”  
  
“Thanks, Japan.” Maybe he could get through this after all. 

* * *

  
  
Germany frowned as he ran his glove over the large steel door. “Veneziano, we might need some explosives.” He glanced back to his partner, who was peeking out the top of the tank they’d arrived in.   
  
“Ah coming, Germany,” he replied. He slipped into the tank and emerged a few moments later, several sticks of dynamite in hand. He bounded over to Germany and handed him the explosives.   
  
“Good, Veneziano. Now make sure your crank radio is working and we can contact America’s unit with it. I’ve already tested mi--- “  
  
Veneziano opened the door.   
  
“Wha— “  
  
“Haha Germany!” He smiled. “You didn’t try turning the latch?”   
  
Germany blanched and walked back over to the tank, putting the explosives away. “It’s very possibly a secret base. I just assumed the door would be--- oh never mind, could you test your crank radio?”   
  
Veneziano nodded and reached down to his side, connecting the wire to the frequency America’s unit was on and turning the crank to power the system. “Helloooo! Lieutenant Vargas here, is it working?”  
  
There was a crackle before the reply. “Yeah we’re here! Captain Jones.” “Sergeant Honda.” “Private Bonnefoy.”   
  
“Now that we’re all synced up, we’ll be entering the base,” Germany explained, now standing back at the door. “You are to land at the coordinates provided if we radio you the code we discussed.”   
  
“Right, right!” America replied. “We’ll be all ‘here we come to save the day’ right when you need us!”  
  
“Wow, you make it sound so fun!” Veneziano exclaimed. “Let’s be heroes!”  
  
Germany rolled his eyes. “Veneziano, turn on your flashtorch. We’re entering the base now.”  
  
The old military base was carved into the side of a hill near the shores of Medved. Even from where they stood, about half a kilometer inland, they could hear the crash of the waves against the shore. The base was entirely underground, and had been state of the art at the time. But over thirty years before, it had been abandoned. It was only when they received intelligence that there had been activity at it recently that the World Military remembered it again.   
  
The pair shone their flashtorches into the base and stepped inside. It reeked of saltwater and mildew, and Veneziano scrunched his nose up in disgust. He placed his hand on the wall and pulled away immediately.  
  
“Ahh, it’s so slimy and stinky, Germany. I don’t think this place has been used in years.”   
  
“If they intended to keep this place secret, they would have wanted it to look unused.” He stepped around a large puddle of water that leaked from the stone ceiling. “Captain Jones. Can you tell us how to get to the main chambers?” The sound of parchment rumpling echoed over the radio.   
  
“Damn this map is old. Could have gotten us a new one…” He paused. “Three turns to the left, then walk straight for a while. Then you’ll come across a fork. Go right and you’ll run right into it.”   
  
Germany and Veneziano continued down into the base, their flashtorches the only thing allowing them to see in the pitch dark. After a few minutes of walking and two left turns, Veneziano screeched in pain. Germany turned around, quick as a flash, and was next to his partner.  
  
“Ow, it hurts!”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“I touched the wall over there and then my foot landed in this pit and my ankle hurts!” Germany lowered his flashtorch. “It must be a booby trap. Ahh, I should have been more careful.”  
  
“It’s not a booby trap.” Germany frowned. “It’s just a dent in the ground.” He grabbed Veneziano below his arms and pulled him away from the hole. “Can you walk?”  
  
Veneziano wiggled his toes in his boot. “I think I’m fine! Sorry for worrying you, Germany.”   
  
He flushed. “I-It’s no problem, Veneziano.”   
  
They pushed forward again, taking one more left as America had instructed them, before coming to the aforementioned fork.   
  
“Everything all right down there, Major?”  
  
“Yes, Captain. We should be almost there.”   
  
“You haven’t come across anything yet?” came Japan’s voice over the radio.  
  
“Just lots of gross slime and mud and stinky water,” complained Veneziano.   
  
“Haha that actually sounds pretty cool. It’s… really boring up here right now,” replied America.   
  
“I could always entertain you with some  _stories_  again,” France quipped.   
  
“Oh fuck off, France.”  
  
Germany sighed deeply and shook his head. “I believe the entrance to the main chambers is just ahead. I can see it.”  
  
“Awesome! Let us know what you find.”  
  
“Of course. Veneziano, come on.” Veneziano scampered behind Germany as he pushed open the large door.   
  
It was dark as pitch on the inside, the flashtorches providing only minimal light in such a large room. Veneziano commented on how scary it was and grabbed Germany’s arm, squeezing it with all of his might. “Probably used for training exercises.” He noticed racks on the wall that were made for holding guns and blades and continued surveying the room. After several minutes, he grumbled to himself. Veneziano was still clinging to his arm. “Nothing here, Captain Jones. If they were here, they knew we were coming.”  
  
“Are you saying there’s a snitch in the military?!” America gasped. “No way. That’s terrible!”  
  
“Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s still more of the base to explore.”   
  
“Maybe we should try another room?” Veneziano offered.  
  
“There’s two doors out of the main chamber,” America explained, pulling out the old map again. “One leads to umm… the kitchens, and the other leads to the living quarters.”   
  
“Let’s go to the kitchens!” Veneziano piped up.   
  
Germany frowned. “Are you hungry again? There’s not going to be any food there.”  
  
Veneziano sulkily put his free hand on his stomach. “I am hungry, but… I thought maybe we could look there because if I was trying to keep something secret, I’d hide it in the kitchen.”  
  
“Haha, wow Lieutenant Vargas. That makes no sense!” America laughed.   
  
Germany tapped his chin. “Hmm. Indeed. Let’s go to the kitchens. Captain Jones, which door is it?”  
  
“Ah what? It’s the left one… but…”   
  
“Veneziano likely meant it in a completely nonsensical manner, but if the Kosmider is trying to be secretive, no one is going to suspect that they’re hiding evidence in the kitchens. It’s a good hiding place.”   
  
Veneziano grinned and bounced on his toes. “I had a good idea, Germany?”  
  
“Yes, it was very good.” He glanced down to the soldier hanging on his arm and smiled lightly.   
  
The pair sauntered across the room and down the hall into the kitchen, which was far more unpleasant than any room they’d entered yet. Rusty pots and pans hung on walls, and distilled water dripped from the ceiling into mildew covered basins that had once been sinks.   
  
Germany raised his flashtorch and shone it all over the kitchens, and Veneziano followed suit. “Not really finding anything,” he remarked into the radio. “I think this is a cold trail. The Kosmider is cleverer than this.”  
  
“Dammit,” America cursed.   
  
“AHHHHHHH!” yelped Veneziano from across the room. Germany ran over to him and gasped. He’d pushed himself against one of the walls, and it had moved. “I found a secret chamber, Germany!”   
  
“Indeed you did.” He shoved the wall aside more, and squeezed inside, Veneziano following. The flashtorch immediately shone upon a pair of shackles on the wall. “Ah, a prison cell. This is something.”  
  
“Anything in there?”  
  
“Nothing that I can see. Wait a moment…” Veneziano flashtorch had just hit the far left wall, where a chilling message greeted Germany’s eyes, written in what looked like black coal.   
  
 _By the time you see this, it is already too late. The skies are theirs._    
  
Veneziano trembled. “S-Scary. What does it mean, Germany?”   
  
Germany frowned. “I don’t know.” He read the message over the radio to the pilots.  
  
“We own the sky,” America recalled.  
  
“Who knows how long they’ve been working underground?” France commented. “Who knows how far their plans are advanced?”  
  
“Either they never used this base and we were sent here on a false lead, or they’ve used it and cleared out long before we arrived,” Germany reasoned.   
  
“They must be many steps ahead of us,” Japan sighed.   
  
“Maybe that’s what the message means?” Veneziano cut in. “If we’ve found out about them… that means…”   
  
“It means that they are more than ready for us,” America finished, his voice grim.

* * *

  
  
They searched the rest of the base to no avail, and Germany and Veneziano said their goodbyes to America’s team and thanked them for their help. They’d relay the message in the cell to their superiors, but they’d have nothing else to tell them. The aviators did one last flyover of their respective areas, refueled at a nearby station, and began heading home. The reconnaissance mission was a failure, although at least, not due to anyone’s ineptitude. America smacked his fist on the dashboard of his plane and cursed. “Man, how badly has this week sucked?” he whined. “My first week as a captain should have been the most awesome week ever but…”  
  
France chortled. “America, your radio is on.”  
  
“Dammit!”   
  
“If you’d like, I can greatly improve your week when we get--- “  
  
“I am NOT in the mood, France.”  
  
“I’m quite good at providing the mood--- “  
  
“I have a headache, so can we not do this?” Japan asked politely.   
  
“ _Gladly_ ,” America replied. “In fact, I’m going to turn my records on and take my headset off. You guys can let me know if you need anything.  _Actually_  need anything, France.”   
  
America flew faster than the other two pilots, and he soon lost sight of them as he soared through the late morning skies. He flew for hours, his sour mood lightening as the steam power carried his plane through bright clouds and pleasant weather. The sky really was beautiful, and damned if he was going to let someone take that from the world. His fist clenched as he thought of the Kosmider and their quest, if what their slogan said was true. He wanted to put a face with the name, but as of right now, it was just a silhouette, or many silhouettes. He had no idea who they were, but he wanted them gone from his life just the same.   
  
He didn’t stop in Luong. France and Japan did, and he’d originally planned to himself. However, he was content in his plane, and didn’t wish to come down to the ground yet. He radioed to tell them he was continuing and flew over the island continent. By the time he reached the ocean on the other side, it was early evening. The purple and pink melded with the orange in a stunning sunset, and America leaned back in his cockpit to appreciate it.   
  
His radio crackled. America swiftly picked it up. “Hello?”  
  
“America, America, are you there?” He recognized the voice immediately. Even just saying his name, the accent was a dead giveaway.  
  
“England? What the hell?” America gritted his teeth and scowled. “Why are you radioing me? I could get into trou— “  
  
“IDIOT! It was just three days ago and you’ve already forgotten the vow you made?” It was then that America noticed the panic in England’s voice.  
  
“I—I—didn’t forget! I was just hoping you would.” He thought he heard cannon fire on the other end of the radio.   
  
“Where are you?”  
  
“About one hundred and seventy-five kilometers northwest of Luong,” he replied. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Blast! I don’t have time to explain it to you. Just follow my signal. No one else can trace it, trust me,” England said in a rush.  
  
“Eh? You want me to trust you?”   
  
“YES. YES I DO!” he yelled. “Now you made a promise, a vow,” his voice was strained, desperate, even. “I don’t know how much you can help, but you’ve got to do it.”  
  
America’s eyes widened. “W-what’s going on?” he asked again.   
  
“You’ll see when you get here. Just fly as fast as you can. I’m begging you!” England’s tone grew more impassioned.   
  
“Desperate enough to beg someone from the military?” America quipped.   
  
“It’s not like tha--- “  
  
America stroked his watch. A pirate was a pirate, and it made his stomach churn to make a deal with one. But he had shaken on it, and it appeared that England was now in danger. His mind flitted through all of the things he utterly could not stand about the pirate captain, and the list was long. But despite that, his mind conjured up England’s pouting face when he’d been embarrassed and the contented way he’d watched his ship’s sails fly in the wind; America did not want him to suffer in any way. And it was that realization that confused America most.  
  
“I-I’ll be right there, England.” 


	6. Skeleton Fleet of the Sky

America had never seen anything like it in his entire life. There were flames, hot and huge, filling the blue sky with crimson and orange and thick smoke. There were massive, white dirigibles, which America knew to be zeppelins. Three of them circled the scene, each formidably firing weapons from the open gondolas suspended underneath their immense forms. He made out black lettering on their flanks, recognizing it as Cyrillic text, although he hadn’t the slightest how to read it.  _K-Kosmider?_    
  
And beyond the zeppelins, and beyond a cloud cover that threatened to obstruct his view further, was a more disturbing melee. A ship, falling from the sky.   
  
The wood was splintering and falling off in enormous chunks and the grand sails were aflame. He could no longer even make out their colors. In the distance, he saw a man tumble off the deck and down to the sea. There was no way he could survive that fall. And he realized it could have been someone he knew; Switzerland, the perpetually irritated gunner, or perhaps it was Prussia, the lively and snarky swordsman. Or England. It could have been England.  
  
“ENGLAND!” America shouted, his voice catching in his throat. His voice reverberated through the small cockpit, and he pressed his head into his hands. He breathed deeply, continuously, panicked. Lifting his head, his blue eyes widened and they darted about wildly, surveying the scene.  _England…_    
  
Was he too late? He cringed at the thought. The zeppelins were pale white, with black gondolas and rudders, like a skeleton fleet reaping throughout the sky. And that ship, plummeting to its death, must have been the Victoria. Had he arrived too late? Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back. Another figure fell from the ship down into the sea far below. Through the cockpit, he could make out only muffled noise. The whistling of missiles, the bang of cannons, and in the distance, gunshots. His heartbeat was fierce and heavy in his ears, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He narrowed his eyes in steely determination and his mouth formed into a thin line. The ship was still falling. Maybe he could still rescue some of the crew.  
  
Maybe he could still save England.   
  
He flew into the fray.   
  
America dodged everything that skimmed by him, piloting his biplane through the flame and the smoke and the now almost deafening cacophony. He said a silent prayer and prepared to nosedive, down toward the falling ship.   
  
It was then that he spotted something else flying in the sky. The cloud-cover and smoke inhibited him from making out any details, but it was another pirate ship. He frantically looked from ship to ship, hoping desperately that the one still afloat in the sky was Victoria. Shakily, America reached for his radio. “E-England?” No response. “England?” Of course not. Even if England were on the other ship, he’d be far from where his radio was. He’d be fighting off the zeppelins. “Fuck.” He decided to go after the falling ship. Whether it was England’s ship or not, there might be people he needed to save on it.  
  
He was a hero, after all. America nosedived, swiftly and steeply. A missile just missed his tail, and he sped up. Moments later, he noticed that the other ship was diving downward as well. It wasn’t falling, he could tell by the assuredness of its motions. It was being deliberately steered.   
  
And he chanced looking up, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat when he could finally make out who was at the wheel. It was England. His expression was fierce, determined, passionate. The wind caught his coat and it flew, whipping the red and blue fabric behind him. Near the middle of the deck he saw Prussia, his blade clashing with that of a silver haired woman’s. Switzerland was on the other side, manning the cannons in a most rapid-fire manner. But his eyes went back to England, who steered with as much strength as he could muster. A gust of wind blew his hat off, but he ignored it, continuing his descent toward the falling ship.   
  
He couldn’t deny it, as much as he wished to; England looked like a captain.  
  
America flew closer, and England finally looked away from the steering and directly at him. America could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile cross his lips and the mouthing of a ‘thank you.’   
  
He nodded back and replied, ‘no problem.’   
  
He observed as England gestured wildly and yelled something to Switzerland, who left the cannons behind and ran up to the wheel, taking it from England’s hands. England pointed downward and Switzerland nodded.   
  
America watched in bewilderment as England grabbed a coil of rope and swung it around the bow, knotting it tightly. England gave it one last belligerent pull and much to America’s shock, jumped off the ship, rope in hand.   
  
He swung down toward the falling ship, and America wondered if he should have helped him but he had no idea what to do. If he let loose the rope and started to fall, he’d catch him then. Looking down at the burning ship, America spotted a pair of pirates clinging to the back deck. They were both bloody and burnt, and one was slung unconscious in the other one’s arms.   
  
England bounced off the back of the ship and leapt up onto the quarterdeck. He exchanged dialogue with them and appeared to be arguing with the conscious one, before finally shaking his head in frustration and grabbing him by the hand. He tied a bit of extra rope he’d snatched around their centers, and pushed off the ship. The man held, as if it were his most precious cargo, the unconscious man tightly in his arms. He glanced back down at the falling ship, tears apparent in his eyes even at this distance. Such grief crossed his face that America had to force himself to look away.   
  
England strengthened his grip on the pair, able to use only one arm to hold them as the other was occupied with the rope, and Switzerland began to pull their lifeline up.   
  
America flew up along with them, watching them with a careful eye. England’s jaw was set in determined resolution, and his brows were creased in pain. America imagined that the rope was rubbing his hand raw, but his hold never wavered, not once. The rope swung wildly, and England almost missed grabbing the edge of the ship once he reached it. The wood splintered under his hand, and even from his distance, America could see blood seeping from his palm. Switzerland ran forward and took hold of his hand, pulling England and the two pirates onto the deck with one easy tug. Switzerland, slight in figure like England, was obviously a lot stronger than he appeared.   
  
And then England was back at the wheel, ignoring his injuries and swerving it as rapidly as he could back up toward the sky. The bulky ship turned around with an enormous creak and a whine from the steam engines, and headed back upward. Switzerland, who had vanished for a moment, reappeared with a crank radio and handed it to England.   
  
England made direct eye contact with America, and moments later, his voice came over the plane’s radio.   
  
“You came.”  
  
“I told you I would! Are you okay? What the fuck is going on?”  
  
England paused for a moment and motioned Switzerland back to man the cannons. “I’m perfectly fine. Never mind what’s going on. It’s the Kosmider, or do you even know who they ar---“  
  
“Of course I do! God, England, do you think I’m stupid?”  
  
He could have sworn he saw England smirk. “You came, and I’m grateful, so I won’t answer that at this moment.” America grumbled. “The Nuberu Pirates managed to take out one of the zeppelins before their ship fell. There’s… only two of their crew left now.” His voice broke at this. “That zeppelin is still in the sky, but it won’t be for long.” America looked up and noticed that one of the three zeppelins was teetering, it’s top aflame and much of the skeleton of the great machine showing through.   
  
“That’s… terrible.”  
  
“Yes, it looks like the Kosmider did quite well on their mission today,” he spat.   
  
“But you guys are still--- “  
  
“They weren’t after us. The attack was on Captain Carriedo’s ship. We just came to help.”   
  
“What? You came to help, even though it wasn’t your--- “  
  
“Is the concept of us helping someone else so alien to you, America?” He didn’t answer, but instead averted his eyes to his lap. “Never mind! Let’s get up there and fight off the bastards who are left. What do you have?”  
  
America blinked, his eyes widening. “Um wha? Oh some missiles and…”   
  
“Shoot them off! Take out the one on the left. If you’re half the pilot you pretend to be, it should be done in a snitch.”   
  
“Geez, you beg me to come and all you can do is insult me,” America mumbled. He flew past the ship. Prussia was still blade to blade with the silver-haired woman, and he took a moment to survey their battle. Prussia was flawless. His swipes were bold and confident, and he dueled with a nimbleness and grace that America would have thought impossible from the loud-mouthed first mate. The woman was holding her own very well though, the full-skirted black dress she wore not even causing a hint of hindrance in her calculated movements. Her long hair swung about freely, and every few strikes, she’d pull a dagger from her sleeve and use it instead of her sword.   
  
He averted his gaze to Switzerland, who continued to utilize the ship's artillery in such rapid-fire succession that America had trouble following his actions. His cannons were aimed up at the largest of the zeppelins, and they hit their target more often than not. America’s mind wandered to the two men England had rescued.  _There’s only… two of their crew left now._    
  
He steeled himself and flew toward the left zeppelin, releasing his first missile as he did so. His aim was true, and the missile smacked spectacularly into the side of the zeppelin, ripping much of the white away to reveal the steel skeleton underneath. America uttered a quiet “yes!” and then cursed as a small missile came at him. He dove down rapidly and watched it explode above him, then with the agility that came with his skill as a pilot, came up under the zeppelin and shot another missile. This one slammed into the belly of the beast, and the zeppelin shook at the impact.   
  
He only had two left. A thought flitted across his mind, unbidden. If he showed up back at the base with no missiles, what would his superiors think? Could he explain to them that he was attacked by the Kosmider? Would they believe him? “Fuck.” America slammed his hands on the dashboard.  _But I made this choice. I came to help and… I’m not going to let them get away with what they’re doing. That’s what a hero would do. That’s my job, right?_    
  
He spun around in a roll and fired at the back rudder, a vital point on the zeppelin. His missile obliterated it, and America knew he had won. Throughout all of this, he’d successfully dodged their attacks. He was a  _damn_  good pilot, and England was going to  _know_  it.   
  
The zeppelin dipped downward, like some great white whale falling to its demise at the bottom of the sea. He spotted several of the crew leaping out of the behemoth with parachutes, and he gritted his teeth that they would survive this but the grieving man’s crew would not. He didn’t know the man, and he was a pirate. But America could scarcely deny the depth of his emotion, even from just a fleeting glance of his face. Perhaps pirates weren’t heroes, but they were a damn lot better than the Kosmider.   
  
America fired his last missile, this time on the unharmed side of the zeppelin. It was already going to go down, but now it would go down faster.  _Good._    
  
“One down, England!” America yelled excitedly over the radio. It was several moments before he received a reply.  
  
“I saw. You’re a fine shot, America.”   
  
“Aha! So you’re acknowledging my awesome then?”  
  
America could have sworn he heard a snicker. “Don’t press your luck.”  
  
There was one zeppelin left, the largest of the lot by far. Its white flanks gleamed, and it appeared mighty and unsinkable despite the damage it had incurred. Being out of missiles, all America could do was watch as the crew of the Victoria combated their final foe.   
  
England had left the bow and was now talking to Switzerland, who appeared to be swearing mightily and pointing at the cannons. Had they run out of heavy artillery? That appeared to be the logical conclusion.  _Shit._  America cursed the fact that he’d run out of his own weaponry. He was useless to them. He banged his hands on the dash of his plane in frustration.   
  
The Victoria was damaged, its sails torn and wood splintering off the sides. The end of the bow had been snapped off as well. The ship held sturdy, showing no danger of falling. But America feared for how much more it could stand. Prussia still fought the black frocked lady, their swordplay a continuing ballet of intense aggression. His smug smirk had lessened though, and his movements had grown more sluggish. How long had the two been fighting? How long had this been going on? He couldn’t, wouldn’t let England’s crew lose. But what chance did he have? What could he possibly do now?   
  
America had never felt more useless. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to fend off the hot, prickling tears that threatened to escape. It was everything. England’s crew, the Nuberu, and the fact that this sort of vicious melee was going to become a commonality in the world’s skies if the Kosmider got their way. And here he was, the hero, forced to stand back and watch as the villains came closer to victory. It made him nauseous.   
  
His eyelids slid open, and he looked back to the ship with immense trepidation. The zeppelin was closer now, far too close, in America’s opinion. England had departed and left Switzerland with the now useless cannons, and he was storming over to the foremast. He called back toward his gunner and the other man ran to his side. England spoke to him using urgent hand gestures. Switzerland’s expression grew infuriated and he interrupted him, motioning wildly and shaking his head in the negative.   
  
England frowned and pointed to himself, and Switzerland scowled and crossed his arms in resignation.   
  
 _What the hell is he doing?_  America picked up his radio to ask, but he noticed that England had removed the crank radio from his waist.  _Dammit._    
  
England threw his coat off and handed it to Switzerland, then began to climb up the mast. His gunner stood sentry at the bottom, loyally following his captain’s every move.   
  
England winced in obvious pain every few moments, his bleeding hand now worse for the wear. A bit of debris fell and sliced his cheek as he climbed, but England ignored it and continued upward. America wondered if the pain in his hand distracted him from even noticing the injury he’d just attained. The sky-boat rocked with every hit it took, and every time it happened, England’s grip tightened on the mast. One time it wasn’t enough, and he slid down the mast quite a ways. He inched back up, looking more determined. Eventually he slung himself over to the foretopmast, now at least fifteen meters above the deck. He was precariously high, and the ship was hardly remaining still. America felt his stomach drop as the ship took a sharp hit. England maintained his ground, and pulled a dagger out of his belt. He sliced a piece of rigging, and grabbed onto it like a rope.   
  
And then he stared directly at the zeppelin, as if judging distance and trajectory, and pushed himself up and off the mast.  _No fucking way._  America’s blue eyes widened and he didn’t even have to think about it, he flew closer to the ship, ready to catch England if he fell.   
  
England soared, fighting gravity as best he could as he aimed his body toward the top of the remaining zeppelin. He let go of the rope with his injured hand and unsheathed his rapier. Then, with a deft skill that America found surprising from the surly captain, his blade made contact with the zeppelin. The razor sharp sword slashed down as gravity carried England, and it created an enormous gaping hole in the white exterior. To top off the attack, he sheathed his sword, quick as a flash, and pulled out an elaborate pistol. The man currently piloting the zeppelin had been exposed by England’s attack, and he aimed true, taking him out with one effortless bullet.   
  
America let out a ‘yes!’ and pumped his fist. He grinned as England swung back to the Victoria, Switzerland running over and catching him as he landed on the deck. Switzerland had fired one last cannon, the very last one, America assumed, at the zeppelin for good measure.   
  
The silver-haired swordswoman looked up from her fight with Prussia and scowled, attempting one last attack on the first mate then turning tail and running toward the deck. She leapt with grace from the Victoria to the zeppelin, a bespectacled young man catching her and pulling her up into the gondola.   
  
“Are they… retreating?” America asked out loud. And indeed the zeppelin turned around, presumably departing before the damage made it impossible to make a return flight. It flew away sluggishly, like an injured beast, and the battered Victoria was left behind.  
  
They were alive. They’d won this round.   
  
America’s sigh of relief was so loud that it was likely to be audible from outside the plane. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, but the almost immediate crackle of his radio snapped him back to attention.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“H-hey!” It wasn’t England’s voice. America looked at the radio quizzically. “Hey hotshot. You’d better land your ass on this ship. Our captain is going to need some tender loving care.”   
  
His eyes widened in realization, and he looked to the deck of the Victoria to confirm it. “Prussia!” He smiled in spite of himself, but then flushed when he registered what exactly the first mate had just said. “W-what the hell do you mean by that?!” America grumbled and kicked his plane into gear, flying toward a smooth landing on the deck of Victoria.  
  
Prussia waved at him, and he could make out the first mate’s smirk from his plane. “Haha. You know exactly what I--”   
  
His statement was interrupted when the radio slipped from his hands, and he slumped like a ragdoll and fell face forward onto the deck. America could make out blood seeping profusely from his back.


	7. Battle Scars

  
The zeppelin’s path home was unsteady, as if it were limping through the sky on its last legs. Lithuania frowned from his place in the torn open cockpit, the cool air whipping his hair into his face.   
  
Russia would be pleased to know that their mission had been mostly successful, but infuriated to find out that the captain had lived. He shuddered involuntarily and rubbed his arms, attempting to bring warmth to himself. Next to him, his comrade Estonia now piloted the zeppelin. He was a young man, close to his own age, with sandy blond hair and an air of assuredness. Lithuania liked him more than most members of the Kosmider he’d interacted with.   
  
Behind him stood the most devoted member of the Kosmider, the blade master Belarus. Lithuania had watched in avowed amazement as she’d fought the swordsman aboard the Victoria. She was outstandingly good, and quite honestly a bit terrifying. While at times he’d sworn he’d seen doubt flicker in Estonia’s, Latvia’s, and even Ukraine’s eyes, Belarus was resolute. He often wondered why Russia wouldn’t allow her to be his right-hand man and instead relied on Lithuania. She would surely be better at the job.   
  
“We didn’t manage the captains, but I do believe I was able to kill both first mates,” was what Belarus had told him when she’d arrived back on the zeppelin.   
  
Lithuania had watched as the missiles were fired and the ship was blown up, falling to a watery death a thousand meters below. He hated it. He hated it every time he was onboard and he was given the role of commander and he took the blame inwardly for every single body that fell and every single ship that burned. His green eyes were misting and his shivering sigh was carried away by the biting wind. 

* * *

  
When America stepped out of the cockpit of his Aeronaut, both England and Switzerland were already crowded around Prussia’s fallen form. They muttered obscenities and their postures were panicked and distraught as America walked over behind them.   
  
“Damn it, Prussia!” England choked out a curse, his voice raw.  
  
Switzerland had picked up one of the fallen man's hands, and England was inspecting the deep wound on his back.   
  
America felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him, as he watched the silent vigil between the crewmembers. He felt like a voyeur, as if he were intruding upon something deeply personal.   
  
Switzerland now pulled Prussia’s limp wrist up to his ear and muttered a prayer under his breath. He paused and then let out a sigh of relief. “He has a heartbeat.”   
  
England exhaled, clenching his eyes shut and shaking his head. “Th-thank god.”   
  
It was then that America stepped forward, standing next to England. Switzerland’s mouth formed into a thin line and he shot America a wary expression, but England suppressed a half smile.   
  
“I believe he’ll be alright,” England said as he surveyed the sword wound. “I imagine the swordswoman managed to embed one of her daggers in his back and Prussia, being Prussia, ignored it. God's sake, he’s such an imbecile.”  
  
“He’ll be okay…?” America reiterated, tentatively.   
  
“The wound is deep and he lost a lot of blood,” England explained. “That’s why he passed out. Idiot has likely been letting himself bleed for quite some time, still fighting without even a second thought.” America recalled the point in which he’d glanced over to the ship and noticed Prussia’s movements growing sluggish. “He won’t be able to raise his sword until he’s laid up for a while, but it didn’t hit anything vital.”   
  
Switzerland lowered Prussia’s hand and let go of it completely when the trio heard a moan from below them.   
  
Prussia lifted his head dizzily and smirked. “Looks like that fight took a lot out of me, Captain.”   
  
England rolled his eyes. “A lot of  _blood_ , you self-righteous git.”  
  
Prussia attempted to turn himself around and sit up, but Switzerland pushed him back down. “Don’t you  _dare_. I’ll carry him below deck and dress the wound, Captain.”   
  
England nodded in approval. “You fought well Prussia.”  
  
He laughed. “’Course I did,” he drawled out, head still swimming. He chanced a glance at Switzerland, then England, then America. “We were all pretty damn awesome.”  
  
Switzerland turned Prussia over and picked him up, carrying him bridal style down to the cabins. A path of dripping blood followed them.   
  
America watched as the pair stepped below deck and allowed himself a small smile. He was about to say something to England, when the patter of a small pair of feet resounded across the deck.  
  
“England!”   
  
He turned around and nodded, greeting the young cabin boy. “’Ello, Sealand.”  
  
Sealand punched him in the arm. “Next time let me fight! I’m a pirate too.”  
  
England gritted his teeth. “You’re the cabin boy. You’re on board to do chores. For Christ’s sake, how often have we had this argument?”   
  
America watched the pair argue for a few moments (he had yet to meet Sealand, so curiosity got the best of him). He then wandered away, meandering about the deck of the ship while still listening to the discussion.   
  
“But I’m twelve years old. You were just fifteen when you became  _captain_ ,” Sealand argued.   
  
“That was an unusual situation, and in any case, I was far more qualified than you,” England retorted in exasperation.  
  
“How do you know what I could do? I’ve never even had a chance!” Sealand crossed his arms and pouted.   
  
England’s green eyes flashed, anger, regret, and something indiscernible. “I will not let you fight, Sealand. And especially not now, with the Kosmider in the skies. This is not a joke or even a simple robbery. Prussia almost died out there. Spain’s crew  _did_.”  
  
“I know, and it’s terrible b-but— “  
  
“Do you think I only prohibit you from being on deck to annoy you? Because I think you’re incapable? Bollocks. It’s enough that I allow you and Liechtenstein on my ship. I won’t risk anything else.” England turned around and began walking away, effectively ending the conversation.   
  
Sealand slid the small pirate hat he always wore off his head and kicked the deck in irritation, then ran back down the cabin stairs.   
  
England stood at the bow of the ship, his arms by his side. The ship was a wreck and would need repairing, Prussia would be out of action for a while, and Spain and his first mate were below deck, suffering from both physical injuries and mental grief. And the Kosmider was on the loose, and surely they’d be back for the Victoria and what remained of the Nuberu Pirates. He cursed. They’d have to hide out for a while. They’d have to leave the sky.   
  
He felt a tap on his shoulder and started, grabbing his rapier unthinkingly.  _I really am on edge_ , he thought as he took his hand off the hilt and turned around.   
  
It was America. America, the  _military_  captain who’d come to their rescue today. The one who had risked his life and used his entire arsenal in his quest to save them. The one who had kept his promise, who had been honorable. He flushed.   
  
America wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry or distressed either. He looked hesitant, unsure. England wondered if this situation was as strange for America as it was for him. He thought it may have been. In his hands he held out England’s hitherto missing hat. “I found it when I was walking around. Looks like there’s a little hole in the top, but I’m sure you can fix that.”  
  
England reached out to take the hat, but his hands froze midway. “T-thank you.”  
  
America shoved the hat forward the rest of the way and England snatched it, placing it back on his head.   
  
“I don’t know how important a hat is to a pirate, and honestly I could care less, but it seemed strange to see you without it. I mean you even wear it with your pajamas,” America excused, looking down at his feet.   
  
England crossed his arms and scowled, but struggled to come up with a witty retort. Instead he just let out a harrumph. America laughed lightly.   
  
“I didn’t expect you to come,” England said.  
  
America’s blue eyes widened. “We shook on it.”  
  
“Keeping promises isn’t something I anticipate a military man to do,” he replied.   
  
America gritted his teeth. “Well  _I_  did.”   
  
Nighttime had settled upon the sky, enveloping it in velvet blues and purples. The cool breezes whipping across the ship were pleasant, and America and England both felt calmed by them. Perhaps it was the intensity of the previous hours putting things in perspective for them, but neither felt very spirited in their attempts at bickering with the other.   
  
England just nodded. “So you did.”   
  
An awkward silence; America broke it. “C-can you tell me what happened? I mean, what I don’t know already.”  
  
England leaned against the edge of the ship. “The Kosmider used Captain Carriedo’s weakness against him.”  
  
“Eh?”  
  
“Have you ever heard the stories about the men who steal from the rich and give to the poor? Outlaws, but ones who are widely considered heroes,” England continued.   
  
“Well yeah, of course.”  
  
“That’s the Nuberu Pirates. They’re a different breed.” He glanced up at the sky, observing the blanket of stars. “There was a merchant ship he was attempting to help.”  
  
“Aren’t merchants rich?” America queried. He was standing just a few feet from England, and he followed his gaze to the stars.  
  
“That’s a myth. For every merchant that’s loaded with shillings and notes, there are ten that only just live comfortably.” He paused. “The ship was a trap. It was an empty, old ship and it was a false distress call. They’d booby-rigged the ship, and the moment Captain Carriedo docked his, he was stuck.”   
  
America’s expression darkened. “So they used the fact that he wanted to help someone to trap him?”   
  
England nodded. “Filthy bastards. All Spain could do was wait in dread. He radioed us and we flew to meet him as quickly as we could.” He sighed. “We arrived before the Kosmider, and managed to pry the merchant ship away. Did a botch job on it, because we wanted to get it off as soon as possible. It ended up falling in the ocean since we had to inflict so much damage on it to remove it. No matter though, it was empty. We thought we were off the hook, but  _they_  showed up in their zeppelins,  _just_  as we were about to depart.” England made direct eye contact with America. “That’s when I got in touch with you.”  
  
“And the captain?” America asked, his voice solemn.  
  
“Spain will be fine. He’s below deck with his first mate. He’s scuffed up, a bit burnt, but he’ll be better with rest.”  
  
“And the other one?”  
  
“Haven't the foggiest.” England shook his head. “I don't know whether he hit his head or passed out due to smoke inhalation, or even both.”  
  
America nodded ruefully.   
  
“He is now Spain’s reason for living, so for both of their sakes, he’d better be all right,” England muttered, more to himself than aloud.  
  
The wind whipped America’s hair into his face, and his glasses momentarily fell askew. He adjusted them. “You---you’ve been a captain since you were fifteen?”   
  
England stiffened. “You heard that then?” America gestured in the affirmative. “Yes, I have, in fact.”   
  
“Woah.” America scratched the back of his head. “How old are you anyway?”  
  
England bit his lip. “Twenty-two.”   
  
“That’s so young! I mean for… you know.”  
  
He shrugged. “I didn't suppose there was any use lying to you. I imagine you don’t care a bit about my reputation.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I usually say I’m older, that I just appear young for my age.” He averted his eyes to the sails. “It’s hard to gain respect when half the sky thinks of you as a  _child_.”   
  
“Yeah, tell me about it,” America murmured.   
  
England’s lips quirked up in a smile. “ _You_? You mean everyone doesn’t respect your supposed inherent brilliance?”  
  
He laughed. “Yeah I am pretty great, aren’t I?”   
  
“Sarcasm is not your strong point, is it?”  
  
America rolled his eyes. “Shut up. A captain who has only been in the military for three years? I came straight out of high school and shot through the ranks.” He walked over and leaned against the edge of the ship next to England. Glancing up at the sky, he spotted a falling star and followed its progress. “Like a comet, is what the colonel said when he awarded me my captainship.”  
  
There was a whir in the steam engine, and England vaguely wondered if the engine might need some repair work as well. A moment later, the gas lights came on and the deck glowed in their incandescent light. “I see Liechtenstein finally got around the turning the lamps on.”  
  
“Liechtenstein?”  
  
“Switzerland’s sister. She’s around Sealand’s age.”   
  
“Anyone else I don’t know yet?” America queried.  
  
“Yet?” England cocked an eyebrow. “No, that’s it. Prussia, Switzerland, Sealand, and Liechtenstein.”   
  
England leaned further back against the edge of the ship and turned his arms around, his palms upward.   
  
America’s blue eyes grew large and he cursed. “Oh fuck England, your hand is completely torn up!” He grabbed his hand and winced in sympathy. He recalled the battle and the frequent moments in which he’d noted England’s bleeding hand. He’d completely forgotten in the midst of Prussia’s near disaster.  
  
“It’s fine.” England pulled away, blushing fiercely.  
  
“It’s not even close to all right.” America snatched it again. There were deep grooves carved in his hand by the rope, and the flesh was raw and swelling. “I watched what you did with this hand, England. That was so stupidly heroic of you!”  
  
Green eyes widened, and after a moment, England began to laugh. “So  _I’m_  heroic now?”  
  
“Th-that’s not what I meant at all!” America remedied, his cheeks pinking. “I just meant that the action of… taking out that zeppelin  _could_  be considered heroic if you know, someone like me and not a pirate did it.”   
  
England scoffed. “Oh of course, right. It’s completely different if a pirate did it.”  
  
“It is!” he countered, but he knew deep down it was a weak retort. “Now stay where you are.”  
  
He shrugged and did as he was told. America swiftly jogged to his plane and sifted around the cockpit, seizing a white box and running back over.   
  
“Alcohol.” America snapped open the box and pulled out a bottle.  
  
“Oh we have plenty of that below deck,” England said.   
  
The aviator opened the bottle and dabbed a rather substantial amount of the alcohol on a small cloth. “Not that kind of alcohol.” He took England’s hand again and squeezed the liquid into the wound. He flinched. “It can’t sting anymore than it already does.”  
  
“After a while, I just stopped noticing the pain in my hand,” he explained. “Was a bit distracted, if you know what I mean.” He pulled away reflexively, but America pulled back. His wound was stinging, the alcohol attacking the infected tissue for all it was worth.   
  
Satisfied, America wiped it off with a dry cloth and reached into the box for a roll of gauze. He began wrapping it around England’s hand. “Is it too tight?” He shook his head in the negative. America wrapped it around a few more times and then cut the gauze, tying it off in a knot. “You have to change it once a day.”  
  
“All right, doctor,” quipped England.   
  
“It’s not like I haven’t been trained in this crap, okay?” America huffed.   
  
“Right. Now why am I letting you do this? I’m quite capable of doing it my--- “ He cut himself off when he felt America touching his face, or rather the sting of alcohol against his cheek.  
  
“You sliced your cheek open when you were on that mast,” America explained, rubbing the cool cloth down England’s left cheek. His face burned.  
  
“Wh-what… stop that!” England spluttered.   
  
“I’m almost done!” America’s bare hand was on England’s cheek now, no cloth between the two of them. He’d reached down to grab a bandage, and was holding his fingers over the wound because the contact with the cloth had caused it to bleed again.   
  
England cursed inwardly, realizing by the heat he felt that his face was likely to be as red as said blood.  _What the fuck is going on with this guy? Such an innocuous action and…_    
  
America wiped the cut one more time to remove the blood, then placed the bandage over it. “There we go!” He gave England a thumbs up. “That should do awesomely.”   
  
England merely nodded, unable to manage a thank you. He felt unsteady, as if he would stutter like an idiot if he attempted to speak. He didn’t want to risk it.   
  
America put the alcohol, bandages, gauze, and dirty cloths back and closed his first aid box. The pair sat in silence for a few moments before the steady clatter of boots pounding on the deck snapped them back to attention.  
  
“Captain,” Switzerland began as he walked toward the two, “Spain wishes to see…” he paused, “he wishes to see America, actually.”   
  
America blinked in surprise. “Huh?”  
  
England shrugged. “Switzerland will take you down to see him.”  
  
“All right but why--- “   
  
“Just go with him,” England interrupted.  
  
America blinked in confusion and shrugged, following Switzerland. England stayed behind, his eyes back on the night sky and his elbows on the edge of the ship. He paused in his reverie and rubbed his bandaged face, a blush spreading across his face as he did so. Shaking his head and willing it to stop, he instead just gave up and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

  
  
The steps down into the cabin area were surprisingly well polished. America had expected a pirate ship to be more rustic. Then again, this was  _England’s_  pirate ship, and he was the one who offered up elaborate embroidered blankets to his uninvited guests (or at least, to him).   
  
“It looks… nicer than I imagined,” America piped up, unthinkingly.   
  
“What did you expect?” Switzerland glared at him.   
  
“I don’t know…?”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “This way.” The hallways were undecorated, but again, they were clean and well polished. America spotted some blood splatters that he assumed were from Prussia.  
  
“How is Prussia?”  
  
Switzerland’s teal eyes widened. “Oh… he’s going to be okay. He’s sleeping right now. Damn idiot.”  
  
America grinned. “He’s good.”  
  
“The best,” Switzerland agreed. “This is the room. Just knock.” He briskly walked away, leaving America in front of the wooden door.  
  
He knocked. “Come in,” came a reply. America slipped inside the room.   
  
The one who he assumed to be Spain (he was conscious after all), swiftly stood up and jogged to America’s side. He was quite banged up himself, burn marks covering much of his arms and his face covered in small cuts. “You’re Captain Jones?”  
  
“Just… America." He scratched the back of his head.   
  
Spain nodded and smiled. “America then. I wanted to thank you for coming. Captain Kirkland explained why you’re here when I asked. That was honorable of you.”  
  
“I-uuh—thanks?”  
  
He smiled, and his voice was a lilt. America wondered how he could smile at him so fondly when nearly his entire crew had just died. He could see the redness in his eyes and the puffiness around them. There had been a lot of tears. “There’s nothing to thank me for, sheesh. You were very helpful. If you hadn’t shown up and distracted the Kosmider, we may not have escaped the ship. Your help was invaluable.”   
  
“Even though I’m military?” America queried.   
  
Spain shook his head. “I understand where England’s coming from, but not all of us have the level of hatred he does for the World Military. But then again, he does like  _you_.”  
  
America flushed. “England? No, no, England can’t stand me.”   
  
He just laughed. “I don’t think that’s the case! Captain Kirkland wouldn’t have let you back on board if he’d hated you.”  
  
America averted his eyes from Spain, deciding to observe the room instead. It was well decorated, but sparse. “How is your first mate?” America changed the subject.   
  
“Ah he’s…” Spain frowned and walked back over to the bed. America followed. “He’ll be okay, I’m sure. I pray…”  
  
America’s eyes rested on the face of the first mate, peacefully sleeping with his back against the pillow. It was a familiar face, one he’d just seen several hours before, in fact. The short reddish brown hair, the youthful features, and he imagined, a pair of warm brown eyes had he been conscious. “Veneziano?!” he exclaimed and then shook his head.  _No, it can’t be. It must be…_  “Is this Veneziano’s brother?” He vaguely remembered Lieutenant Vargas mentioning his brother’s piracy.   
  
“Oh you know Veneziano?” Spain glanced to America. “This is Romano,Veneziano’s brother. They’re twins.”  
  
And America considered the lighthearted and good-natured lieutenant and was gutted at the idea of him finding out what had happened to his twin, was gutted by the mere notion that he could lose him. His eyes narrowed and he pounded his fist on the wall, fresh hate for the Kosmider swelling up within him. 


	8. After the Storm

Spain started at the sound of America’s fist pounding against the wall. “America?”   
  
“I just got back from a mission with Veneziano,” he explained, his voice quiet. He slid his hand down the wall and his arm relaxed at his side. “I was flying back from it when England called me.”   
  
Spain blinked in surprise. “Ah, my friend, it’s a small world?”  
  
America shook his head in the negative. “It’s not the coincidence of it that’s so…  _maddening_.” He glanced over to the sleeping Vargas brother, relieved at least, that he appeared to breathing steadily. “It’s what we were doing over there.” He leaned his back on the wall and pressed his head against it. “We were at what we thought could be a Kosmider base, but everything was gone by the time we searched it. If only we had gone there at an earlier point and---“  
  
“What happened is no one’s fault,” Spain cut in. “No one but the Kosmider’s.” His soft and carefree features hardened into something firm and resolute. He averted his eyes back to Romano and kneeled back down, moving to stroke the unconscious man's russet brown hair. “Romano will be fine.” His other hand grasped the crucifix necklace that hung at his throat, and he ran his fingers over it, muttering words that America could not understand. He dropped the chain and leaned forward, placing a kiss upon Romano’s forehead.   
  
Silence settled in the room, Spain tenderly attending to Romano and America watching on awkwardly. It was broken several minutes later when the door creaked open and England stepped in, closing it behind him.   
  
“Spain?” England’s boots clanked against the wooden floor as he walked over, standing next to Spain at the bedside. America leaned against the wall further, and he wondered if England had even noticed he was still there. Spain pushed himself off his knees and dusted his pants off, turning away from Romano and facing England. “I assume you’re going to be on my ship for quite some time.”  
  
“If that’s all right, England. With Romano hur—“  
  
“It’s fine,” England interrupted crossing his arms. “But there will be no more of that… rubbish you pulled out earlier, when I snatched you two.” Spain’s eyes widened. “I understand honor. I understand your need to adhere to tradition. But if you had gone down with your ship, and if you had left Romano behind I… would have found a way to kill you  _again_.”   
  
America recalled when England had swung down on the rope to rescue the pair and the short but heated argument he had with Spain. So this was what they were fighting over.   
  
“There is no way in the whole of the sky that I’d let  _Romano_  join my crew without you there to regulate him.” Much to America’s surprise, Spain laughed lightly. “And I’m loathe to think how much of a bloody mess he’d be without you.”   
  
“Fair enough, England.” Spain reached forward to shake his hand. England returned the favor, his hold lingering for a few moments as he spoke again.  
  
“Welcome to the Victoria, then. You may stay here as long as you wish to.” He gave him a reassuring smile. His green eyes then grew wide when he noticed the presence of America, who he indeed, had hitherto not noticed. America was standing in the corner of the room, the dim light of the room almost hiding him completely. “You--- “  
  
“D’you want me to leave?” America inquired, suddenly feeling very out of place.  
  
England shook his head. “No, don’t. I mean it’s late and I imagine you’re quite famished, aren’t you?”  
  
America chortled. “I just meant leave the room.”   
  
“Oh.” He glanced away. “I'll, erm, go and help Liechtenstein prepare supper.” His coat whipped behind him as he swiftly left the room, leaving America and Spain alone with Romano again.   
  
Once he was sure England was out of earshot, Spain smiled congenially. “See, he  _does_  like you.”   
  
“Wha-?”  
  
“Ah, nothing.” Spain shrugged. “Surely you like him, right?”  
  
America flushed and his blue eyes grew large. “He is… not as annoying as he could be.”   
  
Quiet fell between the two again, and America considered leaving the room when a series of coughs brought him back to attention. Hoping, he immediately averted his gaze to the bed.  
  
Romano’s eyes were fluttering open, and America noticed they were indeed the same honey brown of Italy’s. He couldn’t observe anything more about his appearance, because within a mere moment, Spain was blocking his view. He’d leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Romano, fiercely holding him to his chest and crying freely.   
  
“Y-you…”  
  
Spain’s words were halted when he was soundly shoved in the stomach. “Oi, Spain!” Romano snapped, finding himself unable to push him off in his current state of weakness. “Get the hell off of me, you jerk. You’re going to suffocate me, dammit.” He coughed again.   
  
 _This man is… nothing like Veneziano._  America gaped.   
  
“I’m just so glad you’re okay!” Spain pulled away from the embrace, sitting down on the bed next to Romano.   
  
“You’d better be!” Romano crossed his arms and looked sour. “I heard what England said.”  
  
“You were--- awake?”  
  
“I’ve been awake since England came in.” Romano rubbed one of the burns on his forearm. “I was waiting for you all to  _shut up_  for a second or two before letting you know.”   
  
He scratched the back of his head. “Ah well, what England said--- “  
  
“Dammit Spain. I want you to know that if you had left me alone on this ship with that stick-up-his-ass captain and his obnoxious swordsman and his crazy gunner, I would have killed you.”  
  
Spain grinned weakly. “I seem to notice a pattern tonight of people wanting to kill me when I’m already dead.”   
  
Romano’s cheeks reddened and he looked down at his lap as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “Oi, Spain,” his voice grew more solemn and he stifled a cough, “t—t—thanks… for saving me, as idiotic as I’m sure it was.”   
  
“Oh Romano…”  
  
And Spain’s arms were wrapped around Romano once more, and his tears were staining the cloth of Romano’s shoulder and America could feel the relief and the joy Spain felt permeating the very room.   
  
When Romano leaned up into Spain and the other man leaned down, their lips crashing together in a kiss that America felt very much was intended to be a clandestine thing, he left the room. The fact that, amongst all the tragedy he’d seen that day, there was some happiness to be found, brightened his mood considerably as he headed back up to the deck.   
  


* * *

  
  
America halted in his journey up deck as the pleasant smell of warm baking food entered his nostrils. He backed up a few steps and pushed open the nearest door. It was larger than the bedroom doors, heavy wood carved with the same emblem that America had seen on England’s blanket.   
  
A hap shod galley greeted him. Pans and pots hung sideways on hooks and spatulas covered in ingredients were thrown next to a tub filled with water. The oven’s flames were hot even from where he stood, and the stove was covered in not one, but  _three_  tea kettles. In the center of the kitchen was a wooden table, several chairs surrounding it. He imagined England’s crew sitting around this table, England sipping tea (it just  _seemed_  like him) and Prussia leaning back in his chair and resting his dirty boots on top of the table. Switzerland would be scowling at Prussia in between bites of dinner.  
  
The room wasn’t unoccupied. A young girl was reaching down and pulling a dish out of the oven. A pair of bows decorated her short blonde hair, and America knew immediately that she had to be Switzerland’s sister. She turned around and nearly dropped the dish in shock when she saw America. The oven mitts that covered her hands were comedically large. “Ah, excuse me!” Her cheeks pinked shyly. “You must be Captain Jones.” She set the dish on the counter and slipped the oven mitts off. “I’m Liechtenstein.”  
  
“America!” He stepped forward and grinned. “What’ya making?”  
  
She brightened. “Oh it’s shepherd’s pie. Captain Kirkland told me to make something nice considering…”  
  
England stepped out of a pantry America had hitherto not noticed with a stack of plates and several cloth napkins. “Ah, America.” He flushed and tightened his grip on the plates. “What are you doing here? I didn’t invite you into the galley.”  
  
America blinked. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He walked backward and stood outside the open door. He knocked. “England, can I come in the kitchen?”   
  
England smacked the plates down onto the table and sighed. “Christ, you idiot.”  
  
He sauntered back in the door and gave England that most infuriating smirk. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” America leaned over onto the kitchen table, his elbows resting on the wood and his chin in his hands. “That shepherd’s pie looks pretty good and it smells nice too.”  
  
“Thank you,” Liechtenstein replied.  
  
“So then, I take it that the breakfast I was given the other day was someone else’s cooking.” America’s eyes wandered to an apron that hung on the wall. It was also decorated with the crest that he was beginning to believe was the Victoria’s Jolly Roger. He’d have to take a closer look at the top of the mast later.   
  
“England cooked that,” came a new voice. Sealand had barged into the room and was leaning against the far wall.  
  
England was now furiously pouring himself a cup of tea. America was giving him a look. It was obnoxious and yet a tad dopey, expectant even. He also, due to the position he was leaning in, had his rump soundly in the air. _What the hell is he waiting for--- what is he doing?_  He blushed when America shifted slightly, his back end moving with him. England clenched the handle of the teacup in his unbandaged hand and a splash of the hot liquid landed on his shirt. He huffed and gulped his tea rather inelegantly, cursing under his breath when it scalded his tongue.   
  
Liechtenstein had begun to slice the shepherd’s pie, placing a serving on each plate. Sealand just blinked in confusion at America and England.   
  
England cleared his throat. “Liechtenstein. Take dinner to your brother and Prussia. Sealand, take a plate down to Spain.”  
  
“Romano is awake,” America piped up.  
  
He sighed in relief and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “And one for Romano.”   
  
Once the two children had left the room, England spoke, “You appear to be back to normal, as obnoxious and imbecilic as ever.”   
  
America shrugged, still not shifting from his position half on, half off the table. “You mean I’m as amazing as ever?”   
  
“Hardly,” England scoffed, sipping his tea again.“If this is how you behave when you're in a good mood, remind me to avoid you at all costs.” America didn’t reply, and he didn’t look away. It was as if he were expecting, _hoping_  England would blow his top. “Would you stop fucking staring at me?” England finally snapped, slamming his teacup onto the table.   
  
America feigned innocence, although his cheeks were pink nonetheless. “Wha- I wasn’t staring at you. Why would I? You're always scowling and your eyebrows look funny."  
  
Said eyebrows furrowed and his frown grew deeper. “Shut up. It’s... not as if I enjoy looking at you, either.” And then America laughed, and England felt his face flush and he leaned over the table as well, his hands firm upon the wood. “What in the blazes are you laughing at?”  
  
America lifted one of his hands and tapped England on the nose. “ _You._ ” England swatted his hand away with a furious blush. The pair stared at each other for a moment more, and America was about to speak again when Sealand ran unceremoniously back into the kitchen.  
  
“Okay I’m ready for my dinner now! Spain and Romano said thanks. Well, Spain said thanks at least,” Sealand rambled, his voice chipper. He pulled up a chair and sat down between America and England, blinking when he noticed how close they were. “Um…”  
  
England pulled away, almost knocking a chair over as he turned to the counter, his cheeks having grown even hotter. America pivoted as well, swiftly toward the door. He put his arms behind his back and twiddled his fingers in the middle. America ignored the flush creeping across his cheeks and began to whistle innocently.   
  
“Oh shut it. I  _hate_  whistling,” England grumbled, serving himself a plate of shepherd’s pie and then shoving one toward Sealand who snatched a fork and a napkin and began to dig in.   
  
America shrugged and stopped whistling, deciding to sit down at the table as well. He was about to make a quip as to how England needed to serve him as well, when a full plate slid across the table. Next a fork was tossed at him, and America caught it nimbly.   
  
“Would you like some tea?” England offered, attempting to keep calm.   
  
He lifted a forkful of shepherd’s pie into his mouth. “Got any soda? I can’t stand tea.”  
  
England gritted his teeth. “It’s tea or water.”  
  
“Or beer,” Sealand cut in.   
  
America paused between bites. “Tea then, but with four scoops of sugar.”  
  
England’s green eyes widened. “You  _are_  joking.”  
  
He was speaking with his mouth full now, which England found disgusting. “I hate tea, but I like sugar.”  
  
England poured the liquid from the kettle to the teacup and spooned in four heaping scoops of sugar. “Appalling.” He shook his head as he gave the tea to America.  
  
America leaned back in his chair, resting his head on his hands. “Any time!”   
  
Sealand had finished scarfing down his shepherd’s pie and was finding the interaction between the two adults increasingly bizarre. He excused himself and left the room.  
  
America sat back straight up and proceeded to continue eating. “So Spain and Romano,” he finally spoke. England paused mid-raise of his fork.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“They uhh…” he laughed awkwardly, “they were…  _making out_.”  
  
England rolled his eyes. “My God. Two men snogging! How utterly scandalous.”   
  
America blushed, which England found strange. “That’s not what I meant. I just… didn’t realize they were so… _close_.”  
  
England stood up and poured himself another cup of tea. “Don’t ever ask Romano. He’ll deny that he even likes him. Preposterous really, considering how obvious it is.” He shot a surreptitious glance at America. “If Spain hadn’t cared so deeply for Romano, he would have gone down with the ship, no matter how hard I tried to convince him otherwise.”   
  
America leaned his temple on his hand, idly toying with the fork. “A captain going down with his ship. Sounds like a heroic thing to do, but I didn’t think pirates—“  
  
“Oh, shut up,” England cut him off, sitting back down. “You can never underestimate the importance of a ship to a pirate captain. She is the  _soul_  of the crew.” He gestured with his fork. “You can just replace your plane, but a pirate can’t just replace their ship, and they certainly can’t replace their crew. You lose those things, and there’s no greater failure as a captain.”  
  
America’s expression grew pensive as he listened to England explicate. “You would never do that, would you England?” he finally asked, his voice far less confident than it normally was.  
  
England’s green eyes widened. “That is...” He shook his head. “She will never go down. The Kosmider will  _not_ take the Victoria.”   
  
America sighed, his question remaining unanswered. The hitherto delicious shepherd’s pie tasted slightly sour as he finished his plate off.

* * *

  
  
America was about to leave the kitchen when Liechtenstein came into the room. She cut herself a serving of dinner and sat down to eat it.   
  
“Don’t worry about doing the dishes,” England said. “You can take care of them tomorrow. We’re all tired.”  
  
Liechtenstein fidgeted with her hands. “Thank you, Captain.”   
  
America did not fail to notice how much friendlier he was to this girl than he was to Sealand. The trio sat in silence for a few minutes until someone else walked in.   
  
It was Spain. He was smiling and holding his two empty plates. “Ah, England, Romano is awake!”  
  
England nodded. “Yes, I had heard. America told me.”  
  
Spain sauntered over to the wash basin and slipped the plates and forks into it. “I figured. You sent two plates, after all! He’s going to be fine. He even argued with me and insisted that I stop trying to force feed him ‘cause  _of course_  he could take care of himself.”   
  
“That sounds like Romano.” He gave Spain a genuine smile. “I’m glad he’s well.”   
  
The reminder that Veneziano's brother was healthy, and his partner’s exuberance over it cheered America up considerably, although his unanswered question to England still hung at the back of his mind. Without thinking, America yawned loudly.   
  
“You gonna offer your aviator a room for the night?” Spain winked at England.  
  
England huffed and crossed his arms. “I suppose it’s the least I can do. Come with me, America.” Blinking in surprise, America stood up and followed England out of the kitchen. “You must be tired,” he said once they were in the hallway.  
  
“Come to think of it, I haven’t actually slept since before I left for my mission.”  
  
England cocked an eyebrow. “Which was?”  
  
America rubbed the back of his head and laughed sheepishly. “I left last night, but I haven’t slept since yesterday morning.”  
  
“Bloody hell, America! That’s almost two days. You really  _are_  mad," he chided him. He’d stopped in front of a chamber door, which he now pushed open. America walked behind him into the room. It was, like Spain and Romano’s room, clean but sparsely decorated. There were crisp white sheets and a fluffy looking comforter that looked ridiculously welcoming to America.   
  
America ran over and leapt onto the bed, relishing the feel of it bouncing beneath him. “I have to admit, the room is pretty good of you. Thanks.”  
  
“You’re likely just saying that because you’re so exhausted.” England cleared his throat and flushed.  
  
He shrugged and lay down on his back. “Huh, probably. Night then?”  
  
England nodded. “Good night.” He turned around to leave the room, but America interrupted.  
  
“One more thing.” He pushed himself up on the pillows and kicked the comforter out from underneath him. “Are you going to tuck me in like the first night I was here?” His grin was cheeky, smug, and maddening because it _should_  have annoyed him more than it did.   
  
England’s cheeks bloomed crimson red and he glared back at the man on the bed. “You are… infuriating.” He slammed the door behind him, America’s infectious laughter entering his ears as he did so. 


	9. Comrades

America’s eyes slipped open, and he found himself momentarily confused by the darkness of the room. Usually, when he woke up, bright sunlight flooded his vision. But he wasn’t in his room back at the Aquila base. He was on a pirate ship, where only a small porthole allowed a bit of light to creep into the room.   
  
He was on a pirate ship, and he’d slept well.  _Amazingly_  well, actually.   
  
“It must have been just because I was so tired…” America reasoned, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed. He snatched his glasses from the bed side table and put them on, stepping onto the wooden floor with bare feet.   
  
Once he reached the door, he paused, his ears picking up a rather loud selection of conversation going on in the hallway.  
  
“Prussia, get back to bed!” snapped England. “Are you insane? You haven’t even redressed your bandages and you’re traipsing around the ship like an uninjured imbecile.”   
  
“But England, I feel fine.”  
  
“You’re bleeding on my bloody floor!”   
  
“Well if it’s already bloody, what’s it matter?”  
  
“SHUT UP!” came a new voice; Switzerland. America pressed his ear closer to the door. “Captain, request permission to take care of him?”  
  
“Oh you want to take care of me, huh?” America could  _hear_  the wink-wink-nudge-nudge in Prussia’s voice. The sound of a gun cocking. “All right, all right.”   
  
“Switzerland, don’t shoot Prussia.”  
  
“All right, Captain. Fine.” He cocked the gun once more, as if in a warning. “I’ll wait until he’s feeling better.”  
  
“ _Switzerland_ ,” England warned. “You were going to take care of him, minus the gunshots?”  
  
“Right,” Switzerland replied. “Come on Prussia.”  
  
“But--- “  
  
“Actually, you shouldn’t be walking.”  
  
“Hey, hey! Wow, Switzerland!”  
  
It was at this point that America decided to peek out the door. The sight that met him was… enough to put amusement into anyone’s morning. Small framed Switzerland was slinging Prussia up into his arms, bridal style. The taller man wasn’t even struggling, instead having decided to snicker and laugh over the situation.   
  
“Perhaps you should take him up to the deck, Switzerland,” England suggested. “We haven’t yet been able to get a good look at his wound in the daylight yet.” No doubt this made sense, but America suspected that England had really just propositioned this in a quest to embarrass Prussia.   
  
Switzerland nodded and carted Prussia off without a word. Once they were out of sight, America stepped into the hallway.  
  
“Mornin’ England!” He clapped his hand onto England's shoulder.   
  
England started. “Good God, America.” He flushed and shoved America’s hand off him. He stepped around, now in front of England.   
  
“So is it like this every morning on your ship?” It struck America, as he said it, that this was in fact, the  _second_ morning he’d awoken on the Victoria.   
  
England sighed. “It’s usually hectic, yes. I have acquired a bit of a permanent headache from dealing with them.” He dodged as Sealand and Liechtenstein came darting past, chasing after each other. “You do realize that it’s eleven a.m., don’t you?”  
  
America’s eyes grew large. “I-I slept that much? Shit.”  
  
“Considering your situation the past two days, I thought it best to let you sleep,” England said with a shrug.   
  
“O-oh.” He scratched the back of his head.  _Is England being considerate?_  He pushed the thought away.   
  
An awkward silence fell between the two. England cleared his throat. “You’ll find some leftover breakfast in the kitchen.”  
  
He nodded. “How are Spain and Romano?”   
  
“Asleep,” England said. “Switzerland went in early this morning and dressed and cleaned their burns and cuts. They fell back asleep immediately after breakfast.”  
  
America scuffed his feet back and forth. “So is Switzerland like… your doctor?”  
  
England pressed himself against the hallway wall. “You ask a lot of questions, America.” He smiled, unbidden. “Switzerland is the most proficient of all of us in medicine, so I suppose he would be our doctor, yes.”   
  
America grinned. “Your gunner and your doctor all in one. Haha, you all are so weird.”   
  
England bit back a retort. America wasn’t insulting him, he could tell by the tone of his voice (why could he read America so well? Why was he even  _paying enough attention_  to him to be able to do that?).   
  
“We  _are_  a bit of a motley crew,” he agreed.   
  
America slipped back into the cabin and sat on the bed to put his shoes and socks on. England followed, leaning against the door frame. “You’ll have to tell me,” he began as he tied his shoelaces, “how the hell you became captain of this crew of crazies. I’ve gotta admit, I  _really_  want to know.”   
  
At this, England’s breath hitched. His green eyes narrowed and his lips formed into a tight line. “H-how dare you presume you can--- You helped us last night, and for that I give you thanks. But you are at best, our ally.” He gritted his teeth. “You have no right to ask me such things.”  
  
His coat whipped around as he turned to leave, but America was faster than him. He snatched England by the shoulder and pulled him back. “What the hell, England?” he snapped. “I come and save your ass, and it seems like we just might be starting to get---- “ he cut himself off. Get along? What did it matter to him? England was a pirate, and if he wanted to only view America as ‘at best, our ally,’ wasn’t that for the best?   
  
England  _could_  be his friend. America’s mind flitted to the friends he’d gained and lost in the military, the small group of three that remained, his true friends (yes, even France). But friend didn’t seem an adequate word to describe the kind of relationship he had with England. Acquaintance? He thought back to the night before, the desperate dread he’d felt when England’s life had been at stake. No, that wasn’t right either.   
  
“Get along?” England finished. “Look, just because we’re comrades, doesn’t mean you get to ask me whatever you like.”   
  
“I just asked you a question!” America blurted, and then paused. “Wait. We’re  _comrades_?”   
  
England’s eyes grew wide, and his cheeks reddened. “I-I- mean… oh never mind. I’m going up deck. I need to make sure Prussia hasn’t escaped Switzerland and died of blood loss or something…” He stormed away, and this time America wasn’t able to catch him.  
  
“Comrades?” he whispered, trying the word out. Not ‘allies at best,’ but comrades.   
  
America could not quite figure out why a grin spread cross his face at this, or why it caused his mood to brighten considerably.   
  


* * *

  
  
“Hey Switzerland, you gonna kiss it and make it better?” Prussia turned his head and winked as Switzerland surveyed the wound on the his back in the early afternoon sunlight.   
  
“You are so damn lucky that you’re injured.” Switzerland clenched his fists. “It wouldn’t be my hand on your back; it would be the butt of my rifle.”  
  
“Well I wouldn’t be telling you to kiss it and make it better if I weren’t injured,” Prussia reasoned.   
  
“Ugh, you." He gritted his teeth and began to wipe down the wound with a wet cloth. “This is not going to heal if you keep aggravating it like you did this morning. I know you’re restless but…”   
  
“I got it, Switzerland,” he interrupted. “Just sit me up on the deck every day and everyone can cater to my whims until I get better. Once we’re done here, I’d like a beer and some lunch not made by England…”   
  
Switzerland twitched and had to stop himself from reaching for his gun. “Just shut up.”  
  
Prussia laughed and was about to retort when England stepped up next to the pair. “’Ello. How is it, Switzerland?”  
  
“Prussia’s back will be fine if he doesn’t do anything particularly idiotic,” he explained. “Which of course means that he’s screwed.”  
  
Robust laughter echoed from the entrance to the below deck staircase. England whipped his head around, spotting America, who was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a grin on his face. England wished that his desire to smack that smirk off his face was stronger. Instead, he stared at America for several moments before turning away.   
  
Comrade. Why had he said that? England shook his head to clear his mind. Speaking of comrades… “America!” he yelled. “Aren’t there people wondering where you are? Did you tell them that— “  
  
“FUCK,” America shouted, running across the deck and nearly sliding into his plane.   
  
England raised his eyebrows and walked over, standing next to the plane. “You forgot to radio your superiors, didn’t you?” America forgetting to do this was oddly unsurprising to him.  
  
He scratched his head and grinned sheepishly. “Guess I was just a bit distracted.”   
  
England slapped his forehead. “You’re going to get in trouble for that, aren’t you?”  
  
America’s face dropped. “O-of course not. They’ll understand that I was being the hero, and won’t care that I didn’t do something as trivial as radioing them!” He was gripping the edge of his cockpit nervously as he attempted to assure himself of this.  
  
England rolled his eyes. “Right. You arrive back there a  _day late_  with all your missiles missing, and you haven’t even so much as radioed them. I might not be in the military,  _God forbid_ , but I’m pretty sure that behavior is not up to snuff.”   
  
“What does it matter to you? Wouldn’t you be happy if I got in trouble with the military?” America queried. He’d tightened his hold on the cockpit, and he could feel sweat caking his palm. He really  _was_  going to get in trouble, wasn’t he?   
  
England pressed himself against the plane next to America. “It’s not such a terrible idea to have someone like you in the military,” he spoke quietly.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I mean it’s a bloody waste, to tell the truth,” he backtracked. “You’ve got at least a fair amount of integrity and I’m sure there are more fitting avenues for someone like you but…”  
  
“Like piracy?” America countered.  
  
England huffed. “Never mind. Just… can you make me a promise once again?”  
  
“A promise, huh?” America glanced up at the sky, the afternoon sun shining brightly. The sails of the Victoria wafted in the breeze.   
  
“Again, no piracy involved,” England clarified.  
  
America nodded. “All right then.”  
  
He made direct eye contact with America, his green eyes intent and his expression resolute. “Promise me that you won’t let the military change you.”  
  
“Wha--- “  
  
“You are absolutely asinine, completely ridiculous,” England continued. “I’ve never met anyone as thick as you.” He paused. “Except perhaps Prussia.”   
  
“Hey! At least I don’t--- “  
  
“Shut up and let me finish,” he cut in. “But you’re not half bad.”  
  
America felt a smile tug at his lips at that. “Neither are you, to be honest.” England flushed. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”  
  
“You do realize that the whole world will soon be at war, don’t you America?” He averted his eyes to the ship’s torn sails. “I mean the Kosmider. They’re growing, and they won’t stop until they’re defeated.”  
  
“I-I know,” America replied with a firm nod.   
  
“And war can bring out the worst in people, so I just want you to promise me that it… won’t change you, that it won’t corrupt you,” England finished.  
  
America ran his hand along the edge of the cockpit and shot England an unconvincing grin. “Heroes don’t let things like that affect them. I can make this promise with no problem at all!”   
  
England shot America a skeptical look and considered his proclamation. After a few moments, he nodded. “Very well then. Do you have a gun with you?”  
  
“Um, no. I didn’t bring one. Why?”   
  
“Good.” England pulled his pistol out of his belt and raised it. Then, taking aim, he pulled the trigger.  
  
“What the hell England!” Screamed America as the bullet whizzed past him. “Oh fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have trusted a pi--- “  
  
“Shut up. I’m saving your arse.” England slipped the pistol back into his belt. He jerked his head toward the cockpit. America looked.   
  
“You  _shot_  my plane,” he stated, flabbergasted.  
  
“I destroyed the radio, you idiot,” England explained. “You were attacked on the way home by a Kosmider zeppelin, and you had to use your missiles to fight it off. They got a hit at your cockpit and it nailed your radio.”   
  
America blinked. “Oh…  _Oh_.”   
  
“I imagine that lying is not your strong point,” England reasoned. “But a broken radio and cracked glass on your cockpit is a bit hard to debate against, especially since you aren’t carrying a gun yourself.”   
  
England had just ruined part of his plane, in order to save him from getting in deep trouble with his superiors. America wasn’t even quite sure  _what_  to think. “Thank you…?” it was as much a question as a statement of gratitude.   
  
“You’re quite welcome,” he replied, proud of his handiwork on America’s prized plane.   
  
“I better leave,” America sighed. England wondered if he was imagining the disappointment in his voice. He must have been.   
  
“Of course.” He nodded, and then whipped around. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Switzerland, go to the galley and nick some food, would you? Put it in a bag, please.”  
  
“Yes, Captain.” Switzerland pushed himself up from his place next to Prussia and went below deck.   
  
England turned back to face America. “There’s a couple of things I want you to know before you go.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He hesitated before speaking again. “We’ll be leaving the skies for some time. We need to repair our ship and with Prussia incapacitated, we’d be a fat lot of good in a battle. We can’t risk the Kosmider attacking right now.”   
  
“Makes sense.”  
  
“There’s an isolated island. I have a good reliable friend that lives there by himself. He’s brilliant in a pinch, can do just about anything you put him up to,” England explained. “We’ll be there making our repairs and recuperating. It will be good for Spain and Romano as well.”   
  
“So you’re telling me about your tropical resort getaway, why?” America raised his eyebrows.  
  
England crossed his arms. “I want you to be able to get a hold of me if…. you… have umm… information you need to tell us or something.” He flushed. “Blast it. I have a frequency, okay? It’s private. It’s something only a couple of other people know… and of course my crew.”   
  
“I won’t tell anyone what it is, England,” America assured him. He was… curiously pleased that England trusted him enough to tell him the frequency.   
  
“Oddly, I know you won’t.” He felt a smile tug at his lips. “If you can’t get a hold of me at that frequency, there’s one other person who can usually find a manner in which to contact me.”   
  
America reached in his cockpit and fished around, snatching a pencil and a small piece of paper. “Go ahead.”  
  
“She’ll be the owner of the Világfa Inn and Pub. Look it up, it’s the only one in the world. Her name’s Héderváry. Hungary’s her first name, and that’s what she prefers to go by.” He took the pencil and paper and scribbled the information down. “I’m also writing the frequency. I’d prefer if you memorized it and threw this paper away.”   
  
“So since this is all top secret, is there anything I need to tell Hungary so that she knows I’m trustworthy?” America shifted his eyes back and forth, mock stealthily.   
  
At this, England’s cheeks turned bright red. “Um… tell her. Oh fuck, let me just write it down.” He penciled it down quickly and turned away, handing America the paper as he did so.  
  
America promptly began to laugh as he read it. “Tell her ‘I’m looking for the unicorn.’” His laughter grew louder, and England’s blush deepened.  
  
“Sh-shut up. I was probably drunk when I made up the code name, okay?” he argued feebly.  
  
America wiped at his eyes. “Oh  _damn_. Remind me to get you drunk sometime!”   
  
“Trust me, you don’t want to see it,” came a new voice. Switzerland had returned with a bag of food in hand. “And this was made by Liechtenstein, so don’t worry about dying.” He gave America the sack.   
  
England glared at him. “Go get the extra crank radio. Make it quick.” He glanced back to America. “Can’t have you flying home without a radio. You can return it to me later. Make sure your superiors don’t find it.”  
  
“When I have information?” America repeated his earlier statement. “What if I don’t ever have information? D’you still want me to drop by?”   
  
“T-that is up to you.” England’s green eyes widened.  _Was America suggesting he might just stop by for no reason?_  He didn’t exactly hate the idea.   
  
Switzerland returned with the radio, and America placed it in his cockpit. “I’ll make sure to give you a call then.” He gestured to his broken radio. “I mean, once I have my radio fixed.”  
  
England just nodded, and America stepped into his cockpit. He pulled on his aviator’s cap and shot him a winning smile.   
  
“Hey England?”  
  
“Yes, America?”  
  
Reaching over the side of the cockpit, he held out his hand. He twitched his fingers, coaxing England to shake it. “Comrades?”   
  
England frowned in hesitation for a moment, before giving him a light smile. He returned the gesture, shaking the America's hand. “Comrades.”   
  
“Awesome! Now you better move out of my way or my plane is going to take you out!” America closed his cockpit and started his plane up, its steam engines whirring to life. England jogged across the deck, his hair sifting in the breeze as America's plane departed the Victoria. He watched it fly away, watched it become a dot on the horizon, as he tried to force the hope that America would contact him again soon out of his mind. 

* * *

  
  
America landed his plane smoothly, driving it into the hangar and patting it as he stepped out of the cockpit. He shoved the crank radio underneath his seat, figuring he’d hide it in his room as soon as he got a chance. The hangar was quiet. France and Japan were nowhere to be found, although their crafts were there. He recalled that their unit was to be given the day off, due to the long flight they’d taken the day before. France was probably out courting women at the popular bar right off base, and Japan was most likely at home reading or studying.   
  
The sound of rapid footsteps, someone running, jarred him out of his thoughts. He turned around and nearly fell backwards when Canada catapulted into him, wrapping his arms around him in a tackle hug. “America—what the… where the heck were you?”  
  
“Wha--- “  
  
“I’m so relieved you’re okay! You didn’t contact us at all and when we radioed you no one had responded…” He shook his head, the anxiety he’d experienced clear on his face. “We really thought something had happened to you.” Canada gasped as he spotted the damage inflicted upon America’s plane. “You  _were_  attacked?”  
  
America felt guilt pool in his stomach. In forgetting to contact the base, he’d worried his friends and his cousin unnecessarily. “I’m okay, Canada. Awesome, really. Give Japan and France a ring, okay? Oh and I’ll tell you what happened later—“  
  
The hangar phone rang. America ran over to the wall and picked it up. “Hello, Captain Jones speaking. Yes Colonel. Yes, I understand. I can explain. I’ll be right there. Goodbye, sir.” He hung the phone up and cursed under his breath. He hadn’t even had time to formulate a detailed version of his story yet, and the colonel was already on top of what had occurred, demanding an immediate meeting.   
  
“Was that the colonel wondering what happened?” Canada queried. America nodded. “Well he doesn’t like to talk much, so I’m sure you won’t be there that long.”  
  
“Thanks Canada, that’s really encouraging,” America grumbled. “Meet me at Cuba’s bar in about an hour. I’ll tell you everything that happened.”   
  
Canada nodded and placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Good luck, America.”   
  
“I’ll need it.” 


	10. Secrets

“You’re like, totally late,” the merchant called. He was leaning over the side of his ship, his blond hair blowing in the breeze and his ruffled pink shirt flying open.  
  
England rolled his eyes. He’d radioed the Krakus two days before to set up a trade arrangement. Poland never asked questions, and as such, he could think of no one better to trade supplies with. They’d use the goods they’d garnered from the Dezenvòlt Islands raid to procure enough to keep them going for a few weeks, enough for the time they needed to spend out of the sky.   
  
They’d already needed supplies before the Kosmider attack, and as such, he’d already contacted Poland. Now they needed them more. The Victoria docked against the merchant ship, and England stepped over onto the Krakus. “All things considered, it’s astounding we’re only an hour late for our appointment,” he shouted back.   
  
Poland nodded. “Well I’ve so already got your order ready and stuff, so we can make this snappy if you want.”  
  
England was next to Poland now. “We’ll actually need more than we requested.”   
  
Poland flipped his wrist at the pirate. “Whatever, as long as you’ve got the goods, that’s fi—hey wait, your ship is totally trashed.” His head had snapped toward the tattered sails of the Victoria, the orange sunset beaming through the torn fabric. England caught him surveying his bandaged cheek as well.   
  
He gritted his teeth and pulled at the black gloves he’d slipped on to cover his injured hands. “I thought you didn’t ask questions, you bloody bender.”   
  
Poland put his palms in front of him. “Woah, like, back it up. I didn’t ask you anything.” He paused. “But I so totally want to know.” He raised his eyebrows and his lips curled up in a small smile, as if he were expecting a certain answer from him.   
  
England braved it. What could be the harm? “Kosmider attack, surely you know of them.”   
  
“Thought so,” Poland replied, his smile vanishing. He bit his lip. “Follow me, Captain Kirkland. I have like, tons of things I can tell you.”  
  
“What ever do you mean?” England furrowed his brows and crossed his arms.   
  
He pouted. “The Kosmider, duh. I’ve got information.”  
  
England’s lips firmed into a grim line. “How do I know this is legit? That it’s not a trap?”  
  
Poland leaned against the side of the ship. “God, what the heck? Bring your pistol and your sword. You totally have permission to like, shoot me and stab me and stuff if I’m lying to you.”   
  
England contemplated the situation. Poland, the bubble-headed merchant, had information on the Kosmider he was willing to offer. The information might be sketchy, but what was the risk in listening? He nodded. “How much for the information?”  
  
“No material charge.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Poland's expression turned dead serious. “I have personal reasons for spreading this information. I only ask like, one thing in exchange for it.” England motioned him to continue. Poland leveled him a look with his deep green eyes, and firmly placed his hands on England's shoulders. “Don’t keep it to yourself. You so have to tell everyone you can, that you think is safe…”  
  
“Ah?”  
  
He turned his face toward the sky, to the east, where Medved began thousands of kilometers away. “The more people who know, the sooner he can be saved.” A sharp breeze stifled the last half of his sentence, and England was scarcely able to make it out.   
  
So there were reasons, deeply personal ones. He wasn’t offering this information because he, like every other merchant, wanted to merely take down the Kosmider. He was providing it because someone he knew needed to be ‘saved.’ He didn’t question further. It was none of his business. “If this information is good, I will let others know,” England assured him.   
  
“It’s good.” Poland’s expression was steely, unlike anything England could have imagined on him before now. “Now be fabulous and like, come inside with me now.”  
  
England nodded and followed Poland down into the ship.   
  


* * *

  
  
The smell of cigars wafted through the air and increased the murky darkness of the bar, lit only by colored lamps hanging from the ceiling and a strip of lights behind the bar. La Bayamesa was the most popular bar for the servicemen stationed at the Aquila base. Loud music from the islands between Papagaio and Aquila blared across the room, a scratchy record player and a large set of speakers serving as the source.   
  
America was glad that he’d chosen to invite Canada here. There was enough commotion and conversation that no one would notice what they were talking about. They’d have to sit just inches away to even hear each other.   
  
He spotted the back of Canada’s head, his chin length wavy hair a dead giveaway, and strode up to him, sliding a stool out and sitting next to him at the bar.   
  
“Eh? America, there you are.” Canada turned to him, his blue-violet eyes concerned. Absently, he swirled the stirrer in his drink.   
  
“Hey, Canada,” America replied. An awkward silence fell between them, Canada continuing to stare at him in expectance. “…I’m fine.”  
  
“You mean…?”  
  
America nodded. “My story checks out.” He leaned back on his arms. “The colonel warned me, said to be careful from now on but…” He bit his lip. “I’m kind of a… well he was pretty soft.”  
  
“You’re kind of a favorite.”  
  
America shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”  
  
Canada took a swig from his glass. “Something is  _really_  bugging you, isn’t it? That was a perfect opening for you to tell me how ‘awesome’ you are.”   
  
He grinned mischievously. “I  _am_  awesome.”   
  
Canada placed his elbows on the bar and put his chin in his hands. “Where were you?”  
  
“Get me a drink first.”  
  
Canada sighed in exasperation and ordered America a beer. Cuba shot America a dirty look as he slid the frosty glass toward him, muttering something about him being a total freeloader. America was his least favorite customer. He had built up a massive tab, and was only slowly whittling it down. Much to Canada’s dismay, Cuba usually mistook him for his cousin when he went to La Bayamesa, and he had to deal with an earful of angry bartender before clarifying that he was  _Canada_ , not America.  
  
“Happy now?” Canada wasn’t truly upset about paying for his cousin’s drink, at least not today. He was just relieved he was okay.  
  
America wiped a bit of foam off his lip. “I was… ahh… well England made me carry through on that promise.”   
  
“Promise?”  
  
Oh. He hadn’t mentioned that to Canada. “When I went to pick up my watch I… had to make a promise to him to get it back.”  
  
“You made a deal with a pirate?” His eyebrows shot up.   
  
“I didn’t have a choice!” America defended. “And he told me it wouldn’t be anything unheroic, so I agreed. I mean I didn’t right away or anything!” Canada glanced to America’s belt, where his prized fob watch was looped. America untied the watch, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand. He adjusted his glasses and took a swig from his glass. “I guess I should tell you what happened from there?” And he began to explain England’s distress call, and the vicious Kosmider, and what had actually happened to his radio.   
  
He skirted around a lot of details, preferring not to talk about those awkward moments with England or the conversations they’d had or the invitation (of sorts) that England had given him to contact him again. America emptied another beer before they were done, and when he finished, Canada was wide-eyed and gaping, his drink forgotten entirely.   
  
“So that’s the end then, right?” Canada finally spoke. “You’ve fulfilled your promise so…”  
  
“D’you mean will I see him again?” America inquired. He was looking down into his glass as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Canada nodded. “O-of course not!” And Canada hoped to  _God_  it was the drink causing America’s cheeks to turn bright red as he said that; because America hadn’t described England’s actions in the battle or his night aboard the ship with dismay, but with genuine excitement. Knowing him, he hadn’t even realized he’d told his tale in such a way.   
  
And when he’d talked about England particularly, his voice rose in pitch and his enthusiasm mingled with something else, something Canada couldn’t quite pinpoint. He  _lit up_  when he spoke of England. Admiration wasn’t right, pride wasn’t either. He didn’t know what it was, and his mind wouldn’t allow him to think further into it. It was as if there were a subconscious roadblock that disallowed him even considering that his cousin might…  
  
“Well he’s a pirate,” Canada interrupted his own thoughts. “I’m sure he can handle himself just fine, eh?”  
  
America looked to the side, his eyes downcast and a frown on his face. “Y-yeah, I guess so.”   
  
Canada exhaled deeply. “Be careful, America.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
He turned, placing a firm hand on America's shoulder. “I can’t tell you what to do.” Canada stifled an ironic laugh. “It’s not as if you ever listen to me anyway.” He paused, leveling America a serious look. “I understand why you did what you did, but if you go back, that’s dangerous.”  
  
“It’s not dangerous,” America snapped. His eyes clenched shut, his lips formed a tight line, and he gesticulated rapidly with his hands, as if searching for the right words. “He’s not like… it’s not like he’s dangerous.”   
  
He vaguely wondered if he was dreaming. America, so strong in his convictions, so stalwart in his quest to be the hero, to fight off villains (which had always included pirates, he recalled from when they’d played together as children), was defending this  _Pirate_  Captain Kirkland. And he was worried about him. He  _cared_  about England. He was of the opinion that he knew America better than anyone else, but this went against everything he knew about his cousin. Did America have any idea what he was saying; was he even consciously aware of what the manner in which he was speaking implied? Canada doubted it.   
  
“Why don’t we go back to the base, eh?” Canada forced a friendly smile. “I bet you’re tired.” America nodded in the affirmative. Canada paid their bill and they left together.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Full house,” Liechtenstein proclaimed, her tone a combination of sweet and smug. She placed the cards down onto the deck of the ship, and Prussia, Romano, and Sealand let out various expletives at her hand. Spain laughed and Switzerland shot deadly glares at everyone who was cursing at his sister.   
  
“How the hell does she always win?” Prussia grumbled, throwing his cards into the middle. “I give up, damn.”  
  
Liechtenstein blushed. “I—ah, I suppose I’m just a natural at Poker?”  
  
“She’s got to be cheating!” Romano accused.   
  
Switzerland cocked his rifle. “My sister would not cheat.” His voice was defensive to a degree that terrified Spain’s first mate.   
  
“All right, all right, geez.”   
  
The sun was descending further beyond the horizon as the Victoria’s crew awaited England’s return from Poland’s ship. Spain and Romano had come up about an hour before for the first time, having decided that fresh air was exactly what they needed, despite their injuries. Prussia had, true to his word, been sitting on the deck all day drinking beer (though he hadn’t been as successful at getting everyone to wait hand and foot on him as he’d wished).   
  
“England is taking a while,” Sealand noted.   
  
“Ah well, he has to get the supplies packed up and negotiate what they’ll be trading,” Spain countered. “He’s going to need a lot, so I imagine we could be waiting some time!”  
  
Prussia stretched out his legs. “Well I’m bored of Poker.”  
  
“Only because you’re losing,” Switzerland quipped.   
  
“Nah, maybe I just have something more awesome to do,” he countered.  
  
“Like what?” Romano asked.  
  
Prussia’s lips curled up into a smirk and he laughed. “I just happened to overhear some interesting things between England and the aviator this afternoon.” He paused for effect. “England probably didn’t think I’d hear it, but I’m pretty damn good at eavesdropping if I do say so, which I do.”   
  
“Spill it,” Sealand demanded.  
  
Prussia pulled his legs toward his chest, sitting cross-legged. “Well first.” He gestured with his finger, as if he were about to make a list. “First he confessed his undying love for America, saying that he never thought he’d feel this way about a man, let alone a member of the military. It was… so romantic.” He faked a sniffle and a melodramatic swoon. “The wedding’s next week, by the way.”   
  
Everyone stifled laughter. “That’s not what happened,” Switzerland said with a roll of his eyes, although he couldn’t hide his amusement.   
  
“Oh right. I forgot to mention the wedding night. We should probably make sure we’re not on the ship then, it could get rowdy,” he snickered. “Still it’s good he’s taking this seriously. At first I thought America was just going to be his boy toy, but it looks like he’s really committed to the relationship. That’s fucking awesome. Of course since he’s such a blushing virgin, I guess it makes sense he wasn’t just looking for sex.”   
  
“C’mon, what did you really hear?” Romano shouted. His cheeks were red, as Spain had just tried to pull him into his lap, and he’d smacked his leg and scooted away.   
  
“Right, right. It wasn’t that, but it  _may as well have been_ ,” Prussia rectified. “He told America his private frequency.” The shock was apparent on everyone’s faces when he finished. “I’m completely serious this time. He told him we were hiding out, and how to get a hold of him. He even went the extra mile and told him how to contact him through Hungary.”   
  
“He can’t just give that information out!” Sealand piped in.  
  
“He’s the captain, so he can do what he wants but…” Spain was tapping his chin. “It’s a pretty serious amount of trust he’s put in America, though.”   
  
“But…the captain hates military,” Liechtenstein countered.   
  
“He does, but for some reason I don’t understand… America seems to be the exception,” Switzerland replied.  
  
Prussia closed his eyes and sighed. “I’ll tell you why. It’s damn obvious. He’s fucking infatuated with the guy.”   
  
Spain laughed. “Ya know, I have to agree with you there!”  
  
“I can’t really reconcile with this,” Switzerland tossed a gun from hand to hand, which made everyone else flinch. “I trust the captain, but how exactly has America earned that level of deep trust?”   
  
Spain tugged on Romano’s arm, and this time his first mate gave in, scooting back toward him. “He’s a good guy, America is. He did help save us.”  
  
“Still…”  
  
“You wouldn’t be on this ship if you didn’t believe in Captain Kirkland, would you?” Spain made eye contact with each and every one of them. They all looked down ruefully. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, okay?”   
  
“True,” Prussia said. “I mean if he’s attracted to the guy, that could in no way influence his judgment or anything.”  
  
Spain shot Prussia a hard, serious look. “Trust him. He’s been a captain for longer than any of you all have even been pirates.”  
  
“But England getting along with, trusting a member of the military?” Prussia stretched his legs back out. “It’s like I’ve woken up inside some sort of weird alternate universe where it’s always opposite day or something.”   
  
Spain picked up the cards from the middle of the circle they all sat in and began shuffling them. “Well… people change.”   
  
Prussia snorted. “Yeah, who would’ve guessed? All it really takes to soften England up is a hot blond flyboy with baby blue eyes and a hero complex the size of the sky.”   
  
Switzerland stifled an amused smile. “I guess we’ve all been going about getting on his best side entirely the wrong way all this time.”  
  
Spain held up the shuffled stack of cards. “Another round of Poker?”

* * *

  
  
“Nothing I’ve told you will like, bring the Kosmider down on its own,” Poland explained. “My source is totally reliable, but even he doesn’t find out all the stuff there is to know. And there are some… limits to what he can gab about to me. If it’s something Russia has only told him, there’s just no way. Russia will know like that, that he was the one to spill it. So, I’ve pretty much told you a lot of what I know.”   
  
England nodded. “Quite understandable.” They were sitting in chairs in Poland’s ‘office,’ and he found himself absently toying with the fabric of a pink blanket that rested on the arm of the recliner he sat in. “Do you happen to know anything about their attacks on pirate ships?”  
  
Poland shrugged. “They totally want to take out all the sky-pirates.”  
  
“I err… figured that much out myself.”  
  
“Everything the Kosmider does is… like, so calculated. They don’t do anything on impulse.”  
  
England placed his hands under his chin and leaned forward. “Bloody tossers probably have a plan to obliterate the Victoria already.”  
  
“Yeah, pretty much,” Poland agreed.   
  
“I will find a manner in which to warn as many crews as I can,” he assured. Poland nodded.   
  
“You would so not believe the Kosmider’s forces. They’re just getting bigger by the day. Ten zeppelins have become a hundred,” Poland continued. “It’s totally hard to believe, but this group hasn’t even been around for more than about… six months. That’s when they took Li--- “ He cut himself off. “They’ve got like, insane amounts of money backing their cause.”  
  
England frowned. “Who? Who in their right mind would back such a group?”   
  
Poland rolled his eyes. “Um, obviously they’re not in their right mind, duh. And I have like, no idea actually. He couldn’t give me that information.”   
  
“Perhaps if we could just go to their base and…”  
  
“No can do. Their base is always moving, it’s a like, really huge zeppelin,” he interrupted.   
  
England sighed. “S’ppose that was to be expected. You got anything else?”  
  
“I’ve got one more thing.” Poland reached behind him and pulled a sheet of paper out of an elaborate brass typewriter. “It’s a list of names. Every single ranked member of the Kosmider.” England reached for it and Poland pulled it out of his grasp. “One more promise you totally have to make.”  
  
“What is it?” He raised his eyebrows.   
  
“If you meet like, anyone on this list, you must not hurt them. You can capture them or whatever but… if you kill them I will--- “ His expression darkened, and England found himself alarmed at the change in mood. Oh wait. He understood.  
  
“One of them is your friend, is it not?” he queried. Poland nodded. “I will not harm any of them.” He reached out his hand and offered it to the merchant, who took it and shook.   
  
“It also has some specifics on the mechanics of the zeppelins they use, which I so totally don’t understand but I figured might be useful.” He slipped the paper into England’s hand. “Now let’s get your supplies ready. What kind of stuff do you have to offer in trade? I trust it’s as fabulous as it usually is?”  
  
“Yes, it’s quite a good haul, actually,” he replied. “I’ll have it brought aboard by my crew once I decide what I need from you.” England stood up and pocketed the sheet of paper. He and Poland stepped out into the hallway, the creaky old engine shooting loud puffs of steam as they made their way to Poland’s supply storage. 


	11. In the News

  
Veneziano sprang out of his chair and bounced over to the phone, picking it up with an excited “Lieutenant Vargas speaking!”   
  
“Lieutenant Vargas, it’s Captain Jones,” came the reply from the other end of the line. Veneziano smiled and leaned his head back toward Germany.  
  
“Germany, Germany. Captain Jones is on the phone.” He nodded and walked briskly over, reaching for the phone.  
  
“Ah! This phonecall is actually for you, Lieutenant,” America clarified, his voice cheerful, almost laughing.   
  
“Ve, Germany. Did you hear that? Captain Jones wants to talk to me.” Veneziano pulled away the receiver and pressed his hand against it.   
  
“Very well,” Germany replied and sat back down, a small smile crossing his lips as he watched Veneziano.   
  
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Is there anyone in the room you don’t feel like you can trust completely?”  
  
Veneziano bit his lip and didn’t hesitate before replying. “Just Germany, and I’d trust him with anything. There’s nothing you could tell me that you can’t tell him!”   
  
“A-all right, if you insist.” America took a deep breath. “I met your brother.”  
  
“Romano, you met Romano?” Veneziano exclaimed. “But… how?”   
  
Germany’s interest was piqued at this. His eyebrows raised and he tuned his ears toward the phonecall. “That’s kind of why I’m calling you.” At this, America’s voice shifted dramatically. He sounded serious, almost distressed.  
  
Veneziano's eyes widened. “Is--- something wrong?” His knees wobbled under him, nearly buckling.   
  
“Your brother is fine!” America rectified quickly. “But the ship he’s on was… attacked by the Kosmider.” Veneziano's breath hitched in his throat. “I thought that I should tell you about it, ‘cuz… well…”  
  
“How is everyone else? Is he hurt?” Veneziano was panicked, his free hand clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt.   
  
“Spain and Romano were the only survivors. And he got banged up, but he’s not seriously injured,” America explained. Veneziano didn’t fight the tears that filled his eyes. He’d never been the type to deny himself a good cry. But his brother was okay, and as much as it hurt to think of the fates of the other crew members (most of whom he’d met only in passing), Romano was  _alive_. He hadn’t seen him in half a year, oh God if he’d died and that had been the case he didn’t know what he’d--- “They’re staying on another ship right now,” America interrupted.   
  
"The Victoria?” Veneziano asked with a sniffle. He knew that the Taliesin pirates were the greatest allies of his brother’s crew. He glanced back at Germany, who was listening intently, his eyes having grown wide at the shift in conversation to the other crew. Another thought struck him. “I-if it’s the Victoria, is everyone okay?”  
  
The other end of the line went quiet. “How did you--- yes, everyone on the Victoria is going to be fine. You can thank them for saving the day. Well and me. I was a pretty big hero out there.”   
  
“Thank you, Captain Jones,” Veneziano replied, truly grateful.   
  
“Just doin’ my job!”  
  
Veneziano pressed his hand to the receiver once more and beamed back at Germany. “Did you hear that? Everyone on the Victoria is okay! Ve, that’s wonderful.”   
  
“Veneziano,” America used his first name and his voice was intent, resolute, firm.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“It’s real dangerous out there right now. The Kosmider… I’ve seen them now and, well I’ll be honest, I was scared.” He let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I mean not much scares me, but y’know.” America exhaled deeply. “Just keep your brother close, okay?”   
  
Veneziano nodded. “I will… keep my brother close,” he repeated. His eyes flitted to Germany once more, who looked away, as if avoiding Veneziano's gaze.   
  


* * *

  
  
England had hidden away in his cabin. The ship was on track toward its destination, and he’d entrusted Switzerland with navigation as needed. He just wanted some time alone, without his chaotic crew and all the conflict that came with them, or the baggage that came with Spain and Romano’s appearance on the ship.   
  
Or the constant taunting he received about America. That was the worst. He flushed, his cheeks hot at the thought of Prussia’s frequent snipes about ‘boy toys’ and all that rubbish. Plus, he’d had to contact crews regarding the Kosmider information. He’d just gotten off the radio with the Ukko pirates.   
  
Sighing to himself, he pulled needle and thread through and finished stitching up the hole in his hat. America had quipped about it ‘maybe being important’ or something, but in truth he was right. He’d had that old hat since he first became captain. And before that the hat…   
  
England shook his head and tied off the last stitch. He longed do work on his needlepoint, which always calmed him, but he knew with an injured hand, he couldn’t handle the tiny stitches and detail required to do so.  
  
And speaking of, England glanced at his bandaged hand with a frown.  _'You have to change it once a day.'_ America’s demand was simple enough and obvious as well. But in truth, he’d completely forgotten to do so until now.   
  
He slid open one of his drawers, immaculately organized, and snatched a roll of clean bandages. Then he unwrapped his current bandage, the white fabric falling onto the floor and revealing the tender and swollen flesh beneath it.  
  
It looked better, he thought. The swelling had gone down and while the wound was still fresh, it didn’t appear quite as raw.   
  
There was a small washbasin by his bed, and he grabbed the bar of soap that sat beside it and dipped a cloth into the water, cleaning the wound and ignoring the searing pain that overcame him as the rough fabric pressed against it. He dried it off and gently wrapped a new bandage around his hand. Once he’d tied it off, he leaned down to pick the discarded one up off the floor.   
  
England paused, old bandage in hand, and his mind flashed back to America chiding him over the injury. _'Stupidly heroic'_ , those had been his exact words, although he’d backtracked on them when England had pointed it out. A half smile crossed his face, unbidden.   
  
That insufferably stupid man would simply not leave his mind. This had been a constant state of affairs the past several days. After the first visit it was him wondering why he couldn’t hate America, after the second it was his constant curiosity over whether America could keep his promise (and as much as he loathed admitting it, the greater part of it had hoped he’d be proven wrong, and that America would come, guns blazing, to help when he called).   
  
After the third… well his mind was a jumble. There was irritation, there was worry, there was confusion, and worst of all, the thing he hated to admit most, there was  _fondness._  
  
He cursed the smug flyboy inwardly for forcing him to become fond of him, as clearly it was America’s fault. He didn’t know how, but as he could scarcely think of more than a couple things he found remotely likable about the man, it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to.   
  
Perhaps it was merely shallow. America was, he could not deny, extremely attractive. He remembered the way his bright blue eyes flickered, their gaze intent, when he’d surveyed England’s wounds. He recalled his soft blond hair that always stuck out at random points from his aviator cap. He was buoyant, and the very way in which he moved screamed of the freedom he found in the sky, and his carefree youthfulness, untainted by the world. And his smile; that was the worst. It was bright and full of life and confident as all but Christ almighty it made him want to stare and not look away and…   
  
It was all America’s fault,  _no doubt._    
  
England rubbed the bandage on his cheek, flushing. “I should switch this one as well.” He reached in the drawer and pulled out a piece of gauze and a roll of tape, then washed and replaced that bandage.  
  
It was then that he noticed that he was still holding the bandage he’d been given the previous night. He threw it onto his desk as if it were a hot coal.  
  
But he wouldn’t trust someone he merely found attractive. And he’d trusted America with a great secret. He’d put him on the same level of his closest allies, and he knew it.   
  
England clenched his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead, spotting his personal radio when he opened them.  _You could contact him…_  He shook his head.  _You have information on the Kosmider. He should know, right?_ England excused.   
  
But America would contact him if he so wanted to see him again. Why bother if America had no interest in meeting another time?   
  
“Idiot, it’s not about seeing him again, it’s about working against the Kosmider,” he told himself, not entirely convinced.   
  
He’d try the radio in his plane on the off chance he was there. If not he could try the crank radio he’d loaned him…   
  
England toyed with the radio, his hands shaking. The radio crackled and whined as he searched for the correct frequency. There. “A-America, A-America…”  
  
He gritted his teeth and switched the radio off; swifter than he was certain he was capable of.  _Fucking hell_. England shoved himself out of the chair and threw his body onto the bed, his stomach against the mattress, his hands underneath his forehead, and his reddening face muffled into the pillow. It was so like the previous night, when America had left him behind on the deck. He’d shoved his face beneath his arms in an attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t insanely, ridiculously flustered. But he wasn’t foolish enough to deny that he had been, and he was now as well. What the hell was his problem?   
  
Somewhere in his subconscious, an answer to that flickered to life, but England quashed his train of thought before it could become anything more than that, a glimmer of something at the back of his mind.   
  


* * *

  
  
“It’s started appearing more predominantly in the newspapers,” Japan noted as he threw that day’s issue onto the table, folded in half.   
  
America frowned, taking the paper and shaking it open. It was tucked at the bottom of the front page, but it was on the front page nonetheless. “Attacks continue on merchant ships,” he read the headline.  
  
Japan nodded. “It’s been in the paper before, but always tucked as a small footnote inside.”  
  
America skimmed the article, resting his chin on his hand as he did so. “It sucks.”  
  
“Captain?” Japan sat down next to his superior and glanced over at him.  
  
America sighed and slid his hand down his face. “This is a worldwide catastrophe, Japan! And this article makes it sounds like a couple of idiots in a zeppelin are flying around getting a few lucky shots in on merchant ships. _Just_  merchant ships too.”  
  
“What else would it be? There hasn’t been an attack on military vessels yet.” Japan raised an eyebrow.  
  
 _Pirates_ , the word died on America’s lips before he could speak it. “It just… this is a big deal Japan. Why are they trying to make it into something less?”   
  
Japan frowned. “Maybe the Kosmider won’t amount to much…”  
  
America shot him a steely glare. “They will.”  
  
And so forceful was America’s tone, that Japan merely nodded and didn’t question him. “But we have been receiving some intelligence on them lately. I’m sure you know…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“General Wang contacted the base today,” Japan noted. “Have you heard yet?” America shook his head in the negative. “The navy has been scouting around, picking up stragglers from fallen ships. Ah, he found a huge mess the other day about two hundred kilometers west of Luong.”   
  
America gripped the edge of the table, his breath catching in his throat. “Wh-what?”  
  
“A merchant ship and a pirate ship, both in shambles. Most of the wreckage had already sunk, of course. There were also two fallen zeppelins, so it appears whoever this was put up a fight.”   
  
“Well there were reports of attacks there,” America replied, his voice having grown quieter. He hadn’t told Japan or France about his whereabouts six days before. Indeed, it had been almost a week since he’d last spoken to England. He wondered how he was. Perhaps he should contact---   
  
“Yes, I remember that,” Japan replied. “Well General Wang--- “   
  
“WAIT!” America shouted. “Were there any survivors?” His knuckles were now white from gripping the table.   
  
“I’m afraid not,” Japan spoke morosely.   
  
America deflated, his small string of hope having been cut. He prayed that Japan did not notice how unusually enthusiastic he’d been in asking.   
  
“General Wang, China, has been extremely helpful. Information on the Kosmider is supposedly difficult to come by. We saw for ourselves how elusive they are.” Japan averted his dark eyes. “It’s not right that the newspapers aren’t treating this like a serious threat but… for now it’s best we just follow orders. I’m sure the military will have this all worked out.”  
  
America bit his lip, and went silent for several moments. “Y-yeah, I guess,” he finally spoke. Japan couldn’t help but notice that for once, his captain didn’t agree right away to put his confidence in the military.  
  
It was at that awkward moment that France chose to gallivant into the hangar, a smirk on his face. “Afternoon, you two.” He winked and pulled out a chair, sliding into it across from America and Japan.  
  
“Afternoon,” Japan replied, polite as ever.  
  
America crinkled his nose, finally registering France’s appearance. He was wearing a white shirt, buttons half undone and hanging off one shoulder as if it had been stretched. There were,  _oh God_ , lipstick marks pressed all over his visible chest and up onto his neck and… “Ugh, France! Take a fucking shower or change clothes or…”   
  
“Is my attire a problem?” France feigned innocence, which America found to be pointless, as no one could ever convince him that France was innocent of anything. “I assure you this shirt is my uniform shirt, and these pants are regulation as well.”   
  
Japan was pointedly looking away, seemingly embarrassed at the mere presence of France and his lipstick stained chest.  
  
“Look, we’re working here! You don’t use your lunch break to have sex with a random lady at the nearest bar or whatever and then subject us to the nasty evidence of it.” America leaned forward on the table as he spoke.  
  
France chuckled, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but the question is, who says it was a random  _lady_?”  
  
“Okay, your exploits with queens or dudes in lipstick or hell, inanimate objects. I never know with you,” America huffed.   
  
“Inanimate objects?” France gasped, mock scandalized. “That is not my thing.”  
  
Japan was now hiding behind the paper, his body leaning over the table, in attempt to ignore the entirety of the scene in front of him.  
  
“If it moves, it’s your thing.”  
  
“You underestimate my taste,” France argued.   
  
America rubbed his forehead, giving up. “Just button up your damn shirt.”  
  
“Ah but…”  
  
“Captain’s orders.”  
  
France pouted and buttoned his shirt. “Captain,” he used the term teasingly, “if we are such outstanding aviators, which some of us are, why have we been sitting at base for the last week doing nothing? There are things going on out there, many things.”  
  
America shook his head. Japan had put the paper down, as it was safe to look up now. “I don’t know, dammit,” he grumbled. “Trust me, if it were up to me… we’d be out there fighting off zeppelins right now.”  
  
France smirked. “Ah, is the favorite feeling a bit rebellious?”   
  
America’s blue eyes flitted to the side, and he caught his plane out of the corner of his eye. “It’s… just… “ He paused. Did he really want to say this to France? “We’re the heroes, and we’re sitting around waiting until it’s okay for us to fight. Because it’s not time yet to go to war, because a certain amount of people have to die first. I don’t even know why!”   
  
France’s eyes widened. Japan looked shocked as well. “One person dying is too many, and it’s already gone way beyond that. Fuck it!” He clenched his eyes shut. “I just want to be in my plane taking those damn bastards down, finding out who is in charge and…”   
  
“America,” France interrupted, voice surprisingly soft. “Calm down.”   
  
The younger man took a deep breath, inwardly counting in attempt to assuage his anger. “S-sorry. I’m not sure what happened there.”   
  
“Being part of the military doesn’t mean you always have to agree with them,” France began. “True, that may be one of the reasons why they like you so much.” America opened his mouth to protest, but France continued. “But blind devotion only leads to trouble.” America nodded. “To think you don’t have the right to disagree? You are so naïve.”  
  
“Yeah, you tell me that all the damn time.”  
  
“It’s only the truth.” France shrugged. “I’m sure even goody two shoes Captain America has a bit of a rebellious streak to him.” He winked suggestively.   
  
America snorted. “God, you make everything sound so pornographic.”   
  
France placed his hand over his chest, faking innocence again. “Truly America, your mind is soundly in the gutter. Why do you insist on assuming my words are laced with innuendo?”   
  
Japan rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. “Captain, I’m sorry but I must request that I don’t believe you should even dignify that with an answer.”   
  
“Request granted.” America grinned.


	12. Kosmider

“Estonia, Latvia, Belarus, Ukraine, and…” Russia’s arms were folded behind his back, and he walked in front of each of the four. He paused once he got to the fifth of them, his lips turning up into a cold smile. “Lithuania.”   
  
The five members of the Kosmider present saluted, hands across their chests in a fist. “Russia, sir.”   
  
“Now Lithuania.” He shot a pointed glance at him. “You have returned from your mission near Ho-Rang-Eee. What do you have to tell me?”  
  
Lithuania shuddered, feeling the intensity of Russia’s gaze. “We completed the mission successfully, Sir.”  
  
“Details?”  
  
Lithuania hesitated, and Estonia took advantage of it. “Russia, sir,” he spoke up, his voice loud and commanding. “Leave Lithuania alone today. He’s done enough for you already.”   
  
A tangible silence fell in the room, as the other four Kosmider members and their leader looked to Estonia. The sound of the steam engines, far below in the bowels of the zeppelin, was the only thing piercing the quiet.   
  
“E-Estonia,” Lithuania finally spoke, motioning in front of him with his hands. “I’m fine, really.”  
  
Russia grinned at Estonia, as if he were a Cheshire cat who refused to show his teeth. “Estonia, I don’t believe Lithuania is in need of any defense. His proficiency in completing the mission shows well that he’s quite capable of defending himself, if he needs to.” He paused, snapping his head back toward Lithuania. “And surely, he would not be so excellent at it if he didn’t enjoy being my general, right Lithuania?”   
  
Lithuania stood firm, willing his knees not to buckle under Russia’s watchful eye. “Four hundred and twenty-five kilometers south of Ho-Rang-Eee, near the Bīng Chuān Ice Shelf, we encountered the Goguryeo Pirate crew.” He quaked, attempting to keep his expression neutral. “We escaped with little damage, Sir. They were not the formidable opponents the Nuberu and Taliesin proved to be,” Lithuania finished, and it scared him that he was able to deliver the message, a message that they’d successfully obliterated the Goguryeo, without faltering.   
  
“Very good.” He walked down the line again, and each person stiffened as he passed them by. “Ukraine.”   
  
“Sir?”   
  
“How is the zeppelin construction faring in Medved?”   
  
Ukraine smiled weakly, wiping away a tear that had pooled in the corner of one of her eyes. “Well, Sir. Our armada is growing. We’ll be able to double it in size within the next month, and there is plenty of money yet left, even doing that.”  
  
“Very good,” he drawled out slowly. “You’re so reliable, dear Ukraine.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Now continuing on, it’s your turn now, Latvia.” The smallest and youngest member of the core group of the Kosmider darted his head up, his shoulders shaking. “We’ve eliminated two sky-pirate crews, but we have many more to go. We must speed up. Now why are we going after the sky-pirates first?”   
  
Latvia gulped, and Lithuania shot him a sympathetic look. “B-b-because we don’t have enough steam power to face the military yet, S-sir?”  
  
“And?”  
  
“It’s the East Paradi uprising, isn’t it?” Estonia interrupted.  
  
“Wait your turn please, Estonia,” Russia requested, or threatened, based on his tone. “Yes, we’re all familiar with the East Paradi uprising, aren’t we? They had grand ideas. I would very much have liked to help them. Why did it fail, Latvia?”  
  
Latvia’s violet eyes grew wide. “The p-p-irates, Sir.” Russia gestured him to continue. “They didn’t anticipate… th-that the pirates would fight against them, fight with the military. They were s-surprised, and unprepared.”  
  
“Battling pirates is nothing like battling the military. Surely you know that from the incident with the Taliesin. There’s no protocol, and they fight with such will power, such need for survival. It’s difficult to crush their spirits.” Russia’s eyes flashed. “Pirates are unpredictable, and the military is oh so very, very predictable. Once the pirates are gone, there will be no surprises. We will only need the steam power, man power, and the armada Ukraine speaks of.” He glanced to each and every one of them, a smile on his face and a cheerful lilt to his voice. “Once they’re eliminated, our path to victory is clear.” Latvia fidgeted and stared at his feet. “Lithuania.” He started. “Please come to my sitting room to discuss the details of our next mission in an hour, okay?”   
  
Lithuania nodded. “Yes, Sir.”   
  
“Wait!” shouted a new voice, that of the previously unaddressed swordsmaster, Belarus.   
  
“What is it, Belarus?”  
  
Her fists clenched and her lips formed into a tight line. “Why did you not address me, Russia, dear?”   
  
“I had nothing more to discuss.” He leveled her a look.   
  
“I knew the answers to everything you asked!” she continued, stepping out of line and stopping mere inches in front of Russia. “I hang on your every sweet word and--- “ The other Kosmider members watched, rapt attention on her. “I-I- love you, I love you, I love you,” she spoke it like a mantra, now tugging on the collar of Russia’s uniform.   
  
Russia cringed. “Belarus, you are--- the finest warrior the Kosmider has…”   
  
“Then why am I not your right hand man? What does Lithuania offer that I don’t?” she paused, running her hand down his chest. “I offer so much more. We could be married, and rule the skies together,” she finished, huskily, her fingers now caressing his chin.   
  
Lithuania watched in amazement, gaining a sort of great pleasure out of seeing Russia so taken aback. He was well aware that Belarus was ruthless and quite possibly insane, but this, this was not something he’d anticipated. He hoped that Estonia, Latvia, and Ukraine were enjoying it as much as he was. Lithuania glanced around. Ukraine’s expression was unreadable, Estonia was smirking, and the smallest of grins was gracing Latvia’s face.   
  
Russia jerked away, his composure shaken. After taking a deep breath, he smiled and spoke, his deceptively sweet voice back in full force. “You are immensely valuable, Belarus. Lithuania is an excellent general, but you belong on the battlefield. Your skill is unmatched, and there is no greater use for those skills than to remove enemies… for me.” He laughed lightly. “Ah, or for us, even.”   
  
His words were like honey and Belarus melted into them, a satisfied smile crossing her face. Her cheeks flushed. “Yes, Russia, dear. I will fight then, for us.”   
  
 _For us?_  Lithuania shook his head.  _You will deceive anyone, even Belarus, so wholly devoted to you. This is for no one but you…_    
  
“ _My Vlasteliny Nebes_ , Russia, dear,” Belarus whispered and then leaned up, giving her commander a quick kiss before skipping off, the sound of her Mary Jane shoes clanking down the hallway.  
  


* * *

  
  
America rested his head on his arms, rolling his chin back and forth on top of the bar and heaving a sigh. After his outburst in the hangar and his frustration with the newspaper, he’d decided the best thing to do after work was to go out and grab a drink. It was the best idea he could think of that didn’t involve flying. He was  _aching_  to get in his plane.  _Damn, maybe I should just radio England and--_  “Hey Cuba, get me another one.” He reached up with one hand and shook his empty glass.   
  
“Dammit, America!” Cuba shouted, sliding a foaming glass of beer down the bar with all the force he could muster. America caught it nimbly in his hand, and Cuba cursed the his reflexes.   
  
“Thanks for that!” America beamed, his million watt smile earning only a furious glare from the bartender. “Cheers!”  
  
Cuba stomped over, stopping in front of America and leaning over the bar. “Pay your damn tab tonight, and don’t even think of sending your cousin in to do it in your place.”   
  
“Aw, but Cuba…”  
  
“It doesn’t matter to me how ace you are back on the base. I don’t give freebies to people just because they can fly a plane.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah whatever,” America grumbled, swallowing another gulp of his beer. He had paused to stretch out his legs when a tap on his shoulder startled him. He swiveled around, his eyes meeting a now fully clad and lipstick free France.   
  
“Bonjour, America,” France said with a wave, pulling out a stool and sitting next to him.  
  
“If you think I’m drunk enough to let you do anything, you’re wrong.” America frowned. “This is only my second beer, so don’t even.”  
  
“Just your second? Then sadly, you are not drunk at all,” France mock sighed. “Although as much as I may wish otherwise, you have never been drunk enough to allow me to, ah, you know.” He winked.  
  
“Shut up. What’re you here for?”  
  
France shrugged, his expression turning serious. “I sympathize with your plight, America.” He rested his chin on his hands, rubbing the stubble that covered it. “They found the remains of another sky-pirate ship.”  
  
“W-what?” America’s eyes grew large and he gripped his glass, panicked. “WHO?”  
  
France cocked an eyebrow, confusion setting upon his features. “No idea. I just overheard it a few minutes ago. I--- “  
  
But he couldn’t finish, because America had bolted out of his stool so fast he knocked it onto the ground, where it clattered noisily. He shoved aside several customers, darting out of the door and barely hearing “HEY, GET BACK HERE AND PAY YOUR TAB!” from Cuba over the sound of his own wild heartbeat.   
  
He ran toward the base, the pavement under his feet turning into grass as he made shortcuts through fields instead of sidewalk. The lights of the base served as a beacon, but they weren’t close enough. America had to get back to the hangar, had to radio England and make sure that--- oh God, they were already weakened.  _Dammit, I should have checked on them before now!_   “England is…” No, he refused to think about it, instead choosing to concentrate on not slipping in the damp grass. He cut across the lawn to the gate, quickly flashing the guard his military ID before being let inside.   
  
America didn’t slow down, even as his breath caught and he grew winded. His hangar wasn’t far now, and when he made it there he dashed inside and jumped into his cockpit as if his life depended on it.  
  
The precious piece of paper, the one with England’s frequency on it, was in his pocket. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he stuck the note in his pants pocket every morning. It was just something he’d done. America felt as if it were safer to keep it close--- in case he needed to, well in case of a situation like right now. He vaguely recalled England telling him to memorize the frequency, and throw the paper out. “Oops?”   
  
He flipped on his radio and, with a silent prayer, turned the frequency to the one England had instructed him to use.   
  
“England? England are you there?” Silence. America gritted his teeth. “England, PLEASE answer me if you’re there. It’s me, America!”   
  
A crackle on the other end of the radio, and then a rather bleary sounding “’Ello?”  
  
“England!”  
  
“Yes, yes it’s me, America. For Christ’s sake, don’t shout. It’s the middle of the bloody night.”  
  
America exhaled and nearly shouted with joy at the weight being removed from his chest. “You must be far away then. It’s only eleven p.m. here.”   
  
“Oh, right, of course.”  
  
America cleared his throat. “E-England, are you all okay?”  
  
“Quite. Prussia, Spain, and Romano are recovering well, and the ship repairs have been going perfectly.”   
  
“That’s great news!”  
  
“Why did you call me?” America could have sworn England’s voice was hesitant.  
  
“I- uh…” he paused, “I heard that a pirate ship was taken down by the Kosmider. Had to make sure it wasn’t you.”  
  
“Oh. Well. Thank you, America. We’re quite all right.”   
  
America’s face brightened and he grinned. “It’s, it’s no problem! That’s what heroes do.” He paused. “I mean you are all wussy pirates and I didn’t know if you’d be able to handle--- “  
  
“Shut up, you idiot.”   
  
“Oh and I’m coming to see you.” This was out of America’s mouth before he had consciously registered what he was about to say, and he cursed under his breath. “I mean--- fuck.”  
  
“You want to come?” And America must have been imagining that tinge of  _hope_  in England’s voice.   
  
He rubbed his forehead, attempting to think of a reason for his outburst. “I uh er…” he began, “I talked to Romano’s brother. We know each other, actually. Did a mission together! Anyway, I told Veneziano that I’d check on his brother in person, so I’ve gotta come down there.” It was a terrible lie. He hadn’t told Veneziano that at all, but damn, it was the first idea that came to mind.   
  
“I assure you that Romano’s fine,” England paused, “but I suppose, if you need to see for yourself, I can give you our coordinates.”  
  
“All right! I’ll write them down right now.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“When will you be leaving?”  
  
America blinked and scratched his head. “Tomorrow morning, I guess? That’s maybe what, eight a.m. my time?”  
  
“Noon here then. Radio me when you’re off the base. I don’t want to risk anyone overhearing our location. In fact, use the crank radio.”  
  
“Geez, England, so secretive.”  
  
“You know exactly why I am.” A moment of silence. “You should go. If you’re talking from the base, it’s best we keep this conversation short.”  
  
America sighed. England was right. “’Kay, see you later.”  
  
“See you then.” He heard England exhale. “Oh and America?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Good night.”  
  
America flushed. “Good night to you too, England.” He clicked the radio off.  
  
Leaning back in his cockpit, America sighed and ran his hand down his face. Had he actually just… told England he was coming to visit him? God, he didn’t think about what he was blurting out at all, did he? He frowned. He’d have to make something up, tell Japan and France to relay if asked that he was following a lead on the Kosmider or… something. Feeling cramped in the stationary plane, America stepped out of his cockpit.  
  
Only to met with the firm, hard gaze of his cousin. Canada’s arms were crossed, and his lips had formed into a thin line.   
  
“Canada!” America laughed nervously.  
  
“It’s a good thing I fixed that radio, eh?” There was an edge to Canada’s voice, something unusual from his soft-spoken cousin.  
  
“Oh yeah. You did great. I really appreciate it!”  
  
“Don’t go.” Canada’s hands were now fisted at his side, and he was staring at his feet.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I was working late in my shop and saw you run in and… I heard your radio conversation.”  
  
“Oh.” America paused. “Oh  _fuck_.”  
  
Canada snapped his head up. “Look, I don’t know what it is that’s so special about this man, but you can’t risk your job and your safety for him. It’s not safe out there! Please, just listen to me this  _once_?”  
  
America stepped forward, took Canada’s shoulders, and frowned. “I--- “ he paused.  _You what_? “I want to go Canada. You’re not stopping me.”   
  
He closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. “I never can, can I?”  
  
America let go of Canada's shoulders. “There’s no reason to. I can handle myself.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“Maybe I’ll come back with information on the Kosmider!” America countered.  
  
“Maybe…” Canada replied meekly, his voice having lost that earlier hint of assertiveness. “Please, just think hard about it. A pirate ship! C’mon America. Whoever this England is, he isn’t worth---”  
  
Canada was interrupted by very loud, very robust laughter, and the sound of someone padding out of the shadows toward them. America cursed as France made himself visible, his white bomber jacket slung over his shoulder and a smirk on his face.  
  
“What’s so funny?” America snapped.  
  
“You cannot be serious,” France said, still laughing. “I knew something had to be going on but… a pirate and... non, it is not the pirate part that is funny.” America was glaring daggers at him now. “ENGLAND? Captain Kirkland?”   
  
America's jaw was set into a firm line. “You got a problem with that?”  
  
“It is hilarious enough that you, America, the superstar hero, are off moonlighting as a passenger aboard a pirate ship…”  
  
“It’s not like that!”  
  
“I gather that this is not the first time you’ve visited Captain Kirkland?” France winked. America’s cheeks reddened. “Ah! It is worse than I thought. Your rosy cheeks are unmistakable.”   
  
“It’s just… hot in here,” America argued lamely. Canada merely watched the exchange between the two.  
  
“Oui. Especially when you are in love.”  
  
At this, America’s face exploded, fierce red, and he spluttered. “SHUT UP!”  
  
“I was merely joking.” France smirked. “I did not think that was the case, but you have proven me otherwise. I am aghast. I assumed no man or woman could ever fall for England.”   
  
“I’m not!” He blinked. “What do you mean? How do you know him anyway?” America recalled England bringing up France the first night they’d met.  
  
“It’s not a matter of knowing him,” France said. “I have only met him a few times, all but one of those just in passing. I landed on his ship once, and he threw me off, rather violently I might add. But he has a reputation amongst those in the less, ah regimented parts of the world…” At this, Canada perked up. “Of being rather… unlikable. And of course, horrendously unattractive.” He sighed. “Eyebrows such as his, I had never seen and hope to never see again.”   
  
America snorted. “Yeah ‘cuz you’re so much better.”  
  
“Well I thought that was a given.” He placed one hand on America’s shoulder. “Even someone such as I would never assume to understand the strange ways in which love works.”  
  
“Stop it France! That’s fucking ridiculous. We’re barely even friends.”   
  
“Your cheeks tell me otherwise.” He poked America’s flushed face. “A lot makes sense now, certainly your sudden intense interest in defeating the Kosmider. And of course, your actions at the bar earlier.” He rested his elbow on America’s shoulder. “Canada, you’d best give it up and let him go.”  
  
“But France!” Canada argued.  
  
“It may be a good thing. You know why you frustrate me, America?” his tone switched to serious. “Because you are good at what you do, but you are also excruciatingly naïve and… you’ll be led around, have been led around, by those above you. America…” He paused, meeting his captain’s wide, confused and slightly angry, blue eyes. “You can become magnifique, if your mind becomes entirely your own. And if it takes England, the least suave pirate in the sky to do it then well…” He grinned cheekily. “I wish you a long and happy life together.”  
  
America slapped France away and crossed his arms. “I’m going to bed! And when I leave tomorrow, tell my superiors if they ask, that I’ve gone to tackle a Kosmider lead.” He ran out of the hangar, eager to escape France’s embarrassing comments and perhaps even stranger, his somewhat roundabout praise.


	13. The Island

America’s plane soared through the sky, wings cutting through the winds and clouds that surrounded him. The late afternoon sun shone brightly, and America found himself shielding his eyes with one hand for much of the flight. His arm was growing sore from the effort. The crank radio lay behind him, having been used to contact England several hours before. Their conversation had been short and to the point, the directions quickly given. He followed that with a goodbye and then, America smiled, unbidden, England had wished him clear skies on his journey.   
  
The eastern most edge of the Paradi Sea was where America was headed now, to a small atoll that America could find not even the slightest sign of on his map. He imagined that was the point, an isolated area that would be almost impossible to track. But he’d flown over hundreds of tiny islands, and although he’d been given the exact coordinates of this nameless circle of land surrounding a lagoon, he couldn’t suppress his concern that perhaps he’d just  _miss_  it.  
  
America wiped his palm across his brow, the muggy tropical heat causing him to sweat. He’d long since slid off his bomber jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He had spent most of this journey trying his damndest to think of everything but what he was doing. Why in the hell had he told England he’d come? And why had he been so insistent upon doing so when confronted by Canada and France? He could have just as easily radioed England back and told him he’d decided it wasn’t necessary to come.   
  
But there had been something in England’s voice that had resonated with him.  _You want to come?_    
  
The way he’d asked that, the hint of something in his words. The way England’s voice rose in pitch slightly, the earnestness of his statement. America thought that perhaps, England may have heard the same thing in his words. Because that was how he felt.  _I hope you’re all right, England. I want to see you again…_    
  
He flushed, and then swore to himself that it was just the heat.   
  
The island England had described to him was in sight now. He double checked his location and he lowered his plane slowly, judging the trajectory at which he’d need to land.  _Well this is it…_    
  
The atoll was beautiful from above, a lagoon of the richest teal, bleeding into cerulean in the deeper middle. A thin island encircled most of the atoll, lush green vegetation and sandy beaches visible as he descended upon it. America squinted as he made out the Victoria, floating in the shallow water as if it were an ocean faring vessel instead of a sky ship. Not twenty meters away from it was a small landing pad and next to that… a beach. The beach was occupied, although from this distance, America couldn’t tell who was who.   
  
America lowered his plane to the flight pad and landed, swift and easy. He popped open the cockpit and stepped out of his plane, stretching his arms and legs out immediately upon doing so. “So hot! Better shed some more layers.” Adding his vest and tie to the pile that contained his bomber jacket and aviator cap, America walked toward the beach. His boot clad feet met with hot sand as he stepped off the landing pad, and it wasn’t long before he was able to make out exactly what was occurring on the beach.  
  
Prussia was lounging in a wicker beach chair, all swim trunks and a loud tropical shirt. He had a very frosty looking glass of beer in one hand. He snatched a towel from beside him when Switzerland walked by, smacking it against his rear. Switzerland turned around swiftly, and his fingers twitched at his side as he reached for a gun that wasn’t there. Prussia laughed, and America could make out the loud peals from where he stood some distance away. He marched closer to the beach, now able to make out everyone’s voices clearly.   
  
Liechtenstein and Sealand were both in shallow water, having a rather intense splash fight. And Romano, well he looked fine. Spain was fast asleep, and Romano had buried the poor man in sand. Only his head and feet stuck out.   
  
And he was…  _oh God._  America tried his damndest not to laugh. He’d created two perfectly perky bumps out of sand atop where Spain’s chest was surely buried. America couldn’t miss the devious grin etched across Romano’s face.   
  
“Make ‘em bigger!” Prussia yelled from his chair, and Romano happily obliged.   
  
 _What, did they come here to have a beach party?_  His face broke into a grin.  _Awesome._  His thoughts were interrupted by a catcall, and he grimaced, knowing immediately who it must be from.  
  
“BOY TOY!” Sure enough, Prussia had noticed him on the edge of the beach and was waving wildly, a smirk plastered across his face. America’s cheeks pinked.   
  
“Shut up!” he yelled, jogging the rest of the way to the section of the beach the crew of the Victoria was occupying. America stopped in front of Prussia's chair, hands on his knees and leaning over slightly as he caught his breath.   
  
“England spilled that you were coming at breakfast this morning. Wanted everyone to know so Switzerland didn’t think you were someone else and like… shoot you down or something, I guess,” Prussia said. “’Course he was bright red as he did this. Haha. Watching him squirm is pretty awesome.” America ran his hand through his hair, sticky with sweat. “Dude, it’s fucking hot out. Do you want a beer or something?”  
  
“Ah, no… I’m fine,” America replied, looking about the beach wildly. There was another figure on the beach that he hadn’t noticed before. This man must have been the friend England spoke of. His skin was tan, bronzed by the sun, and he had short golden brown hair. He was hammering away at a large piece of wood, seemingly a part of the Victoria that needed repairing. America tore his eyes from the man, far more concerned with locating someone else…  
  
“Looking for England?” He glanced to Prussia, meeting his mischievous red eyes. “End of the dock, brooding like the stodgy spoilsport he is. Guy wouldn’t understand fun if it was giving him a lap dance while naked.” He raised an eyebrow toward America. “’Course if  _you_  did that to him…”   
  
America huffed and turned away, knowing that Prussia would get a rise out of his inexplicably blushing cheeks. He spotted the dock, and at the end of it, a lone figure.  _England…_  He wasn’t wearing the beach attire the rest of his crew donned, but he, at the very least, was wearing short sleeves, rolled up breeches, and his feet were bare.   
  
Wordlessly, America jogged toward the dock, his speed inhibited by his heavy boots sinking into the sand. Once he reached it, the wood clattered noisily under his feet as he walked along the dock. England turned around, closing the book he’d been reading and standing up.  
  
And America enveloped England in his arms.   
  
America hugged people. He hugged his friends and his cousin, and it was nothing strange. He cared about them, so why wouldn’t he show it? But when he impulsively wrapped his arms around England upon reaching the end of the dock, his arms tight around his back and his chin on top of England’s head, his mind froze up. He… he… oh God what was he doing? England wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like Japan or Canada or even France. He couldn’t just… But he had, and he had yet to pull out of it.  
  
He was embracing England. And England was rigid in his arms, stiff as a board and America could practically feel the heat emanating off his face. He expected him to shove him away, push against America’s chest and call him any number of names. In contrast he just didn’t move, and that confused America even more.  _Let go, let go, let go._  Instead, America rubbed one of his hands down across his back, and England responded by stiffening further under his touch.   
  
His sandy blond hair was soft under his chin, choppy and tousled as if he’d just woken up (America speculated that England’s hair was just like that naturally). In America’s arms, England was small of frame and lithe of figure, even more so than he’d assumed England to be from just looking at him. But he didn’t feel weak. Frail would be the  _last_  word he’d use to describe the man. There was a deep strength, both physical and mental, palpable in the way his body felt and the manner in which he held himself; taut muscles and a proud posture.   
  
America finally willed himself to pull away, and the scent of England, something like the crisp bright sky combined with tea, lingered.   
  
“Wha-what are you…” England began, still flushed. They were still so close, and England’s vivid green eyes were wide and his thick eyebrows were furrowed and America contemplated that perhaps France was wrong and those eyebrows were actually rather---   
  
“I-I’m glad you’re okay,” America interrupted both England's words and his own train of thought, rubbing the back of his head.   
  
“’Course I’m okay, you tosser! Now what exactly was that about?” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, toward the expanse of ocean beyond the dock.  
  
“I… dunno,” America answered quietly, then laughed. “I guess I was just trying to share with you some of my awesome! I mean I’ve got a lot to spare so…”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”   
  
Silence fell between the two, America attempting to pay more attention to the sloshing of the water against the deck and the sea birds crying overhead than to England. England's arms were still crossed over his chest, and it was then that America noticed the book he held in one hand. “So everyone is having a beach party and you’re out here by yourself reading a book?”  
  
“I see no problem with that. They’re doing what they consider fun and relaxing, and I’m doing what I enjoy.” England clenched the book in what America realized, was his still bandaged hand.  
  
America shrugged. “How’s your hand holding up?”   
  
England slid the book under his arm and held out his hand, rubbing his fingers across the bandages that still covered it. “Quite well. Wound isn’t half as deep now, and the pain is minimal.”   
  
America grinned. “See! I told you I knew what I was doing, huh?”  
  
He huffed. “Well shouldn’t you be more concerned with someone else?”  
  
“Huh?” America blinked, confused.  
  
“The reason you came here, you dolt,” England clarified.   
  
“Oh… oh… OH!” America smacked his forehead.  _Way to forget the excuse you gave England._  “Well Romano looked pretty okay! I mean he was giving Spain sand-boobs and…”  
  
England rolled his eyes. “He’s healing well, yes.” He chanced a glance at the shore. Prussia was up from his chair and was assisting Romano in his conquest of the sleeping Spain. “As… you can see, Prussia is also healing nicely.”   
  
America rocked back and forth on his feet, the wood creaking beneath his boots. “So uh, how are the repairs going?”  
  
“Ah? Brilliantly, really. We might actually be able to leave this island sooner than we’d planned,” England explained.   
  
“Oh yeah! You should introduce me to your friend,” America requested. England nodded, and blushed scarlet when America snatched his arm and started pulling him along the dock and back to the beach. He wrenched his arm out of America’s grasp and huffed, stomping ahead of him.   
  
“Honestly,” he grumbled, stepping onto the hot sand and waving in the direction of the man repairing his ship. “’Allo, Australia!” England jogged over and stood next to him, America following.  
  
“’ello, mate.” He pushed himself onto his feet, dusting sand off his khaki shorts. “Almost got this piece ready. I’ll start on the sails tomorrow.” Australia’s mouth turned up in a grin when he spotted America. “So this is the famous Captain Jones? Criminy, you really  _are_  a military bloke. I almost thought England was joking about that!”   
  
“So this is your… island?” America inquired, eyes scanning from the lush vegetation beyond the beach to the bits of ocean he saw out his peripheral vision.  
  
“My island! Not many people know about it, and for good reason.” He put his finger to his lips in a gesture of mock silence. “I’d hate for someone to take it from me after all. There are so many islands in the Paradi Sea that you can’t find on any map, so I figured since this one wasn’t, it was mine for the nicking. Got a boat and my own plane, so I can come and go as I please.”  
  
“That sounds… nice,” America replied, because truly, it did.   
  
“It’s the best!” He stretched and yawned. “Feeling a bit knackered though, so I’m going to grab a bit of shut eye, all right?”   
  
“Get your rest in,” England replied, nodding.   
  
“Great then. Ta!” He clamped a hand down on England’s shoulder. “And I’ll come out and make some dinner after that…”  
  
“Oh don’t concern yourself with that. I can cook.”  
  
Australia grimaced. “No, it’s no problem. I thought we’d have a cookout on the beach tonight, since we have company.” He jerked his head to America with a wink.   
  
“Well he’s not…”  
  
“A barbeque? Awesome!” America interrupted excitedly.   
  
“Never mind then, I suppose he’ll be staying.” England suppressed a small smile.   
  
“Right. Later then.” Australia waved goodbye and walked away, toward a large hut visible at the edge of the tropical foliage.   
  
England raised an eyebrow. “So, I imagine you wish to join the others in their beach party, then?”   
  
America surveyed the Victoria crew. Switzerland was now helping his sister build a sandcastle. Prussia was back in his chair having somehow garnered himself another glass of beer. Spain was still out, and the sand that was covering him was looking more inappropriate than ever. Sealand was wading in a small pool of water near the shore.   
  
“Nah,” America replied. “Looks pretty fun but…”  
  
“But what?”  
  
“Dunno…” Ameirca crossed his arms and glanced down at the sandy beach. “Why don’t we uh…”  
  
“You wanted to see how the repairs were going, did you not?” America nodded. “I’m going back to the ship then, I can show you if you’d like.”  
  
America’s face brightened. “Y-yeah, that would be cool. You could even give me a tour or something!”  
  
“A tour?”  
  
“Hey, a military man’s gotta understand their enemy.” America shot him a cheeky grin. “So you should show me _how_  exactly you all live your life of crime!”   
  
England scoffed. “And I suppose after that, you’ll give me a tour of your base. I can see how you live your life full of ah, justice and heroism and all that wash.”   
  
America snorted. “Please, like you’d want to come to the base.”  
  
“Not in a million years,” England quipped. “But all right. Come with me then.”

* * *

  
  
“And this is our Jolly Roger, although perhaps you’ve noticed that by now.” England picked up the flag, folded neatly beside the mast because Australia was going to be working on the sails soon. It was the crest from the blanket and from the galley, the one America had speculated about being their Jolly Roger.  
  
“A unicorn,” America laughed.  
  
“There’s a lion too,” England snapped. “Honestly I don’t see what is so funny about unicorns. They’re noble beasts.”   
  
“Yeah, if you’re a fair maiden, or whatever,” he teased. England frowned and folded the flag back up.   
  
“It’s been the symbol of the Taliesin since the beginning. Respect it, or get back in your plane and leave,” England’s voice had taken on that frigid, serious tone, the one that popped up any time America said something that for some indiscernible reason, upset him greatly.   
  
“All right. Jeez, England.” America held his arms out in front of him.   
  
England glared at the other man “That’s enough here then. Why don’t I show you below deck? You’ve seen the galley, but there’s loads more.”  
  
“Sounds cool.” He perked up, following England down the stairs that led below deck.   
  
“Switzerland’s room will be the first,” he began. “He and Liechtenstein have been on the crew for a few years. I couldn’t turn him down when he offered his services, crazy as he is.”  
  
“He’s pretty damn good,” America agreed. England pushed open the gunner’s door, and the first thing America’s eyes met with was a very large rack of artillery, covering almost the entire back wall.  _No surprise there…_  “That’s uhh… wow.” Outside the weaponry, the room was minimalistic. Switzerland didn’t seem to have many possessions, and the bedding and furniture was as basic as the cabin America had stayed in.   
  
“As you can see by the simplicity of the room, Switzerland sells most of his loot first to take care of Liechtenstein, then to buy more weaponry.” England shut the cabin door.  
  
“Is that all his stuff?”  
  
“Guns? No, that’s only about a fifth of them.”  
  
America gaped and shook his head. “Hey, hey, what about Liechtenstein? What’s a sweet girl like her doing living on a pirate ship?”   
  
England leveled him a look. “You’ll discover that many of us pirates are parentless, and some of us end up in this occupation due to necessity. A pirate ship may not seem safe to you, but I assure you there’s no safer place for her, than to be under her brother’s guardianship.”  
  
“And Sealand?”  
  
England chortled lightly. “A stowaway at first, but we let him stay, because there was simply nowhere else for him to go. He can be useful, when he’s not being a right brat.” He paused. “Oh, here’s Prussia’s room.” England popped open the door and America peeked inside.  
  
“Badass,” was the first thing that came to mind, and he said it out loud. Black and gold silks covered the bed, and the furniture was all varying shades of dark and glossy and detailed with engravings and carvings and even filigree. Against one wall was a rack of blades, gorgeous and elaborate and just  _dangerous_  such as America had never seen.   
  
“You’d think he was the captain, the way he decorates his room as if he were a king,” England sighed. “But he can do what he wants with his share, there’s no reason for me to stop him.”  
  
“Prussia is…”  
  
“I don’t know much about Prussia, to be honest. There is a bit of an… understanding between us,” he explained. “He doesn’t ask about me and I don’t ask about him.”   
  
“Is it because he has some terrible and unheroic criminal past?!” America queried.   
  
England bristled and stiffened, chill seeping back into his voice. “Not at all. I think it’s because there’s something in his past that hurt, something he wishes to forget,” he paused, "and I see no reason not to respect that.”  
  
“O-oh…”   
  
America thought England looked far away, as if he were reflecting on something clandestine that he would never allow him to be privy to. And this was what America wanted to know. He enjoyed finding out about England’s pirates, the eccentric members of the Victoria crew who he found amusing and (despite Prussia’s taunts), oddly likable. But it wasn’t them he wanted to discover everything about. It was England, and that was the cabin door that he didn’t expect him to open for him. America knew he’d continue to accidentally say things that set something off within England, something that caused him to grow cold and distant and often, genuinely infuriated. And he wanted to know, he wanted to know, dammit, why that happened, and who England was and why he was… England; the young pirate captain who lied about his age and protected everyone close to him as if they were an extension of himself and loved his ship as if it contained everything that had ever been dear to him.  
  
But he wouldn’t be allowed to see his room, and even more so he wouldn’t be allowed to know his story.  
  
He gulped. Well, it was worth a shot. “Can I see  _your_  cabin, England?”


	14. Not so Different

“No survivors?” China leaned over the edge of his steamship, staring at the rows of oars that propelled it forward. The ship was being navigated through a field of ocean dotted with ice, and China frowned as it just barely darted a rather large, rather dangerous chunk of it. He wrapped his coat around himself further and rubbed his gloved hands together, blowing on them in attempt to warm himself. “Hong Kong?”  
  
“None at all,” replied Hong Kong, his words echoing in the still of the frigid air. “It would be enough of a surprise if someone were able to survive normally, let alone here…”  
  
“Bīng Chuān is… on average, the coldest place in the world,” a new voice piped up, feet clattering across the deck as she approached the general. He swerved around to face his subordinate, a young woman who was holding her tight parka around her as wind whipped strands of dark hair into her flushed cheeks.   
  
“Welcome back Taiwan,” China noted her presence. “Unfortunately that’s true. Korea just radioed me and told me they didn’t find anything either.”   
  
“How many pirate crews have been downed this last week?” Hong Kong inquired, placing his thickly gloved hands on the edge of the ship.  
  
“Two that we know of. The Nuberu and this crew, the Goguryeo,” China paused. “A merchant ship… and…”  
  
“One pleasure vessel,” Taiwan finished. “Ten civilians on a sky-cruise from La Poule to Tsuru, blown right out of the sky.” Hong Kong raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Collateral damage, from what we’ve been able to find out,” China clarified with a frown.   
  
“It’s worrisome,” Taiwan replied, staring out across the frozen sea, toward the ice shelf that could be made out kilometers away. “Very worrisome.”  
  
Hong Kong cursed under his breath. “Is the military planning on taking action any time soon, General Wang? I mean, outside sending out search parties and finding out information.”  
  
China bit his lip, immediately regretting the action as the freezing wind had chapped it. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Hmm,” Hong Kong answered, his discomfort with the situation clear in his expression. “Oh I meant to tell you. Back when we were at the Ho-Rang-Eee base this morning, Major Thailand gave me this message to deliver to you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope, blank except for a seal, as every envelope containing private military protocol was required to be in the World Military. China took it from his subordinate and turned away from Taiwan and Hong Kong, slipping the envelope open with one gloved finger. He skimmed it quickly and sighed, folding it neatly and placing it in the flap of his coat.   
  
“Can you tell us what it says at all?” Taiwan queried.  
  
He turned back to his two subordinates, a tentative, if obviously false, smile on his face. “Just that… it appears as if it won’t be long before the military  _does_  become involved on the battle front as well.” 

* * *

  
  
“Can I see  _your_  cabin, England?”   
  
England stiffened, his back to America. “You---wha?” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I uh, why do you want to? It’s not that interesting, really.”   
  
He glanced at America out of his peripheral vision as he shrugged. “Saw everyone else’s…. I mean.”  
  
“You haven’t seen Liechtenstein and Sealand’s rooms yet,” England corrected.   
  
America was scratching the back of his head, a habit that England had noticed he engaged in quite often. “Yeah well… I mean it’s kind of,” he paused, “I told you I had to know all about my enemy, right?” he laughed nervously.   
  
England exhaled deeply and a smile quirked up one side of his mouth. “I don’t see the harm.”  
  
“Huh, really?”   
  
England began to walk down the hallway, and America followed him. “This room.” He stopped in front of the cabin. His door was larger, more elaborate, than that of his crewmates.  
  
He opened the thick, heavy wooden door, and it creaked beneath his push. England briskly stepped into the room, leaving America outside to observe.  
  
The first thing America noticed, outside of the upholstery (all very green) and the size of the room (large, but practically so), was how little it resembled the kind of room he’d always envisioned a pirate captain having. Over in one corner should have been a large round table with several chairs, where the captain would sit with his crew for meetings. Maybe on the table there’d be an elaborate scope, golden instruments, and a few treasure maps. And he thought that England’s room should have been at least two times bigger than it was. Not a room, but several rooms. But it was just one room and there was no table, just a desk. And only one chair.   
  
It was so private, and America thought this looked like a room that belonged to someone who preferred solitude. England cared about his crew, that America was certain of, but he had little trouble imagining him spending more of his free time down in this room than sharing in the upbeat antics of his crew. He frowned and wondered why the idea of England isolating himself, choosing to be alone, caused him to feel a tad gloomy.   
  
America stepped across the threshold into the room and continued surveying his surroundings. The cabin was also immaculately clean, not a stray speck of dust or a single item out of place. It was almost  _sterile._  “It’s very umm… clean,” he finally managed.  
  
England cocked an eyebrow and slid into his chair, crossing his legs and resting his hands atop them. “Is that a bad thing?”  
  
“No…”  
  
“I’ll be honest,” England suppressed a sardonic smile, “I have a rather poor habit of losing things, so I try to keep things organized.”   
  
At this, America grinned. “Me too!” He rested his hand on the edge of the desk.  
  
England blinked, focusing his gaze on the aviator. “Oh?”  
  
“I lose crap all the time,” America whined. “My friends are always getting on my case about it. Luckily Japan keeps the hangar pretty clean. He’s a neat freak…”  
  
England absently ran a hand up and down his leg. “You want to sit down?”  
  
America nodded. “Yeah, I think I will!” England began to stand up, but America had a different idea. He plopped rather unceremoniously onto the edge of England’s bed, the soft silk and down comforter bouncing beneath him.   
  
“Oh well… I suppose that works as well.”  
  
He laughed. “I’ve never really told you about my unit, have I?”   
  
“No but…”  
  
America considered that if he told him more about himself, he might be able to get England to open up more about his own story. “No, I should! You know about France, of course.”  
  
“Unfortunately.”  
  
“Hah! Yeah, I know what you mean,” America continued. “Well there’s my cousin, Canada. He’s… shy and he can be a bit of a pushover, but he’s an awesome mechanic. Canada’s the only other person that I really trust my plane with. We’ve been really close since we were little, and… people often mistake us for twins.”  
  
“You look alike?” England propped his elbow on the desk, having turned his chair toward the bed.  
  
“Yeah, a lot alike.” He stretched his arms out behind him. “Japan is a sergeant. He’s from Tsuru and he’s a great pilot. Not as good as me of course…”  
  
“Oh, of course not.” England rolled his eyes.  
  
“Hey! It’s true. But he’s damn good nonetheless.” America shuffled his feet back and forth against the side of the bed. “We’re pretty much best friends. He’s quiet and likes to study a lot, but he’s actually a lot of fun to hang around with.”  
  
England’s interest appeared to be mildly piqued by what America was telling him, but he had a feeling that sharing such information, information that wasn’t deeply personal, wouldn’t have much of an effect on him.   
  
America bit his lip. “This is sort of a weird thing to say but… if there’s anything you want to ask me about… y’know, myself… go ahead.” His cheeks pinked as he asked this, and he stared down at his still swinging feet.  
  
England’s eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out for a moment. “Why are you offering?” he finally asked.  
  
America shrugged. “Just… ‘cuz I mean if we’re comrades, we should know things about each other.” He still tripped a bit on the word comrades. America felt as if perhaps, he was slightly manipulating him, and a tinge of guilt pulled at him for doing so .But he really wanted to know about England,  _know_  England. He’d allow him privy to personal things if it meant possibly getting him to open up to him.   
  
England gulped and nodded. “Fair enough.” He looked directly at America, his green eyes questioning. “Then may I ask you, why you joined the military?”  
  
America’s brows furrowed. “Huh?” He shifted slightly. It was an odd question, but in retrospect, he should have anticipated a question like this from him. He shook his head and beamed. “To be a hero, of course!”  
  
England huffed. “That’s not an answer, you idiot.”  
  
“Why not?” America scowled. “That’s why I joined!”  
  
“More detail, at least?” he demanded. “You said I could ask you anything, and I assumed that promised a fair reply as well.”  
  
He rubbed his forehead and sighed, reaching down with one hand to toy with the fob watch at his waist. “Yeah, yeah okay.” America ran his fingers across the watch. “It’s never been a question for me, what I was going to do when I grew up…” his voice as he began was far quieter than usual, far more contemplative. “My grandfather and my father, they were in the military, and that was important to me.” He smiled, nostalgia gracing his mind. “Told me old war stories all the time, which was awesome.”   
  
“You’re speaking awfully quietly,” England said.   
  
“Oh I can speak---“ But England had slid out of his chair and decided to sit down on the bed next to America.   
  
“I can hear fine now.”   
  
America smiled softly. “But yeah, I mean it wasn’t because I wanted to just do what the rest of the family did or anything,” he continued. “It was a lot more than that. I---I--- remember the first time I got to go up in the sky. It’s my first real memory, to be honest.”  
  
England nodded. “Yes… I know what you mean.”  
  
“You?”  
  
England leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t remember anything from before, really. The first clear memory I have is waking up aboard a ship, this ship, and experiencing the feel of the sky and…” He smiled, wistful. “It was…”   
  
“Like even then, I realized this was where I was meant to be,” America finished.   
  
“Y-yes… exactly,” England concurred. “I know how that is.”  
  
America grinned. “Yeah! Yeah I thought you might. But anyway, I want to be in the sky,” America explained, “and I want to help people. There’s nothing all that complicated about why I joined the military. The medals are nice, and the recognition is too. But it’s not… that’s not why.”   
  
England’s hand was near America’s now, and it twitched, as if wishing to move those couple centimeters further to reach it. His face grew hot and he willed himself to pull away.  _Don’t be daft. Don’t touch him. You---_    
  
“That work for an answer?”   
  
He nodded. “Yes.”   
  
“Awesome.” He gave England a thumbs up, and then lowered his hand, placing it beside him.  
  
It landed soundly on top of England’s hand. A hot, scarlet flush brightened his cheeks as he registered America’s contact. He braved glancing down at America’s hand, so casually resting on top of his. England hadn’t had the courage to do it, but there was America, touching him like it was no difficult task. Like the hug earlier, America had wrapped his arms around him and all he’d been able to do was stand there, scared stiff. Perhaps America was just the touchy-feely type. Maybe he didn’t have trouble with it, because his actions didn’t mean anything special.  _N-not that mine would mean anything either, if I did it, of course!_    
  
He looked up, despite the fact that he knew his face was still hot, to meet America’s bright blue eyes. They were like the sky, and he was struck by how so much about America reminded him of the sky, wide and shining and free. And he… was… his hands were calloused, strong, and sturdy, much like England’s own.  _We’re not so different, are we?_  The room was so silent, the only sound being England’s heartbeat hammering in his ears and their quiet breathing.   
  
As if to test the waters (did America even  _realize_  what he was doing? Honestly), England shifted his hand slightly underneath the other man’s.   
  
And America bolted away, his cheeks reddened and he shook his hand out as if he’d just touched a hot coal. England did the same, immediately tucking his arms across his chest afterward.  
  
America had darted the other direction so haphazardly, that his legs thumped against the side of the bed with a loud bang. “Ow, damn!” he cursed, reaching down to rub the back of his knees. Upon doing so, America’s eyes caught the edge of an object peeking out from under the bed. It hadn’t been there before. He imagined that his accidental assault on the bed had caused it to roll out.   
  
He snatched it up and turned it in his hands. It was a small scope, golden and intricate and studded along the top rim with what America assumed to be emeralds.  _This_  was the kind of treasure he expected to see laying around in the headquarters of a pirate captain. He sat back up and held the scope up over his eye, pretending to look out over the sky with it. “Wow, did you steal this?”  
  
America couldn’t miss the way England’s eyes flashed when he saw what the other man was holding, nor could he miss the rueful expression that crossed his face and the way his lips tightened into a thin line.  _Oh, this is one of those situations._    
  
“Just kidding!” America rectified. “I mean I’m sure it’s yours honestly, right? I didn’t mean to--- “  
  
“It’s not mine,” England interrupted. His voice now was quiet, and it contained a strange combination of coldness and vulnerability.   
  
America gulped. He took England’s hands and placed the scope in them, a hesitant smile on his face. “Here ya go then.”  
  
England clenched his hands around the scope and held it to his chest. “I’d been looking for this, actually. So ah, thank you.”  
  
“Is it… “  _Just ask, dammit._  “Is it important?”  
  
England closed his eyes and nodded. “It is.”  
  
“Ah?”  
  
He man sighed. “It… well it belonged to the previous captain and he…” England shook his head roughly. “Never mind! Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I’m going to prattle on to you about my ship or my past or my… captain. You know enough! Now don’t ask again.”  
  
America blinked. “I… didn’t really ask you.” And he just stared at England, watched as he clutched the scope close to his heart, as if protecting something so precious, which is exactly what it was _. ‘The first clear memory I have is waking up aboard a ship, this ship, and experiencing the feel of the sky.’_  He had that and the captain, the one who was gone, and then England, who had become the Victoria’s captain at only fifteen, taking over from that previous captain. Those were the pieces he had, and the puzzle was at least  _starting_  to come together.   
  
 _How long have you been on this ship England? Has this really been your entire life?_    
  
He reached forward and placed a hand on England’s shoulder. It was something he’d do to any friend, really. If they were feeling down, a touch of his awesome would be guaranteed to cheer them up. And England, well he seemed rather piteous at the moment.   
  
America moved his other arm up as well, a hand on each shoulder. This… well… this, like the hug, felt different.  
  
England’s eyes grew large and his face contorted in embarrassment as his cheeks flooded with red, once more. “Wh-what are you…”   
  
The door slammed open with a bang, and America scrambled away from England, nearly falling onto the floor as he did so. England, for his part, leaned up against the headboard, his hand over his heart as if willing the palpitations to slow down.   
  
Prussia was standing before them, hands on his hips and the most devilish of smirks on his lips.   
  
Dammit,  _Prussia_  of all people. Walking in on them sitting on the bed together, America’s hands on England’s shoulders and--- well England had looked so strangely flustered. It had to have looked pretty bad.   
  
“You know, you two,” Prussia began, “I think that I’m actually not going to say anything.” He laughed. “Because _this_ , this is just too easy even for me.”  
  
Somehow that was even more embarrassing to him than the innuendo laced boy toy comment America had been expecting. His cheeks burned.   
  
“Belt up, Prussia!” England snapped. “Do you have any idea how much time you’ve accumulated on the mast? Don’t think you’re off the hook because you’re injured. When you’re better I’ll--- “  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Prussia snorted. “Anyway, dinner’s ready, lovebirds.” He winked and left the room.  
  
America stood up from the bed and brushed his legs off. “S-sorry about that,” he murmured.   
  
“About what?” England queried, sliding off the bed and placing the scope in a desk drawer.   
  
“I mean what Prussia walked in on. It’s just… I saw you were down and y’know…” He scratched the back of his head.   
  
“Hmm?” England raised an eyebrow.  
  
America laughed nervously. “I didn’t mean anything by it!” he clarified in a tone that he hoped sounded reassuring.  
  
“O-oh, I see.” England shut the drawer and frowned, his eyes downcast. He sighed. “Of… course not,” his voice lowered in timbre, almost a whisper by the time he finished. “Now let’s go to dinner. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it more than being cooped up in this bedroom with me," he bit off the last part of the statement.   
  
America rubbed his forehead and blinked, nonplussed. England had sounded so, dejected, disappointed, disheartened even.  _England, what did I do wrong now?_


	15. Heroes Aren't Afraid of Ghosts

The last thing England expected when he returned to the beachfront was to be nearly knocked over, breath momentarily leaving him, as a ball came out of nowhere to hit him soundly in the stomach.  
  
Then again it was not every day that the crew of the Victoria played dodgeball either. And that was exactly what greeted America and England when they stepped back onto the beach. Well that and the unexpected smack in the abdomen. He could hear America stifling laughter, and he grumbled.  
  
“Now who the hell threw that?” England clenched the ball between his hands and stomped toward his crew. Spain and Romano were on one side of a line drawn in the sand, and Switzerland and Liechtenstein were on the other. Sealand stood near the shore in a sulk, apparently having been knocked out of the game.   
  
“I’m—I’m really sorry Captain!” Liechtenstein flushed and looked to her bare feet, twiddling her toes in the sand.   
  
America laughed out loud now, and England shoved him in the arm. “Shut up. She’s Switzerland’s sister. Are you really surprised her arm is that good?”  
  
“The mighty Captain Kirkland,” America quipped, mock dramatically, “taken out by a preteen girl.”   
  
England hmmphed and rolled his eyes, then smiled softly at Liechtenstein. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure to aim for America next time instead of me.”  
  
“Ah well, I wasn’t aiming for either of you,” she replied, pulling at the fabric of her swimsuit, embarrassed.   
  
“Then aim for Prussia.”  
  
“Prussia’s out,” Switzerland finally spoke, and he was smirking. England averted his eyes over to further down the beach, where Prussia was assisting Australia in last minute meal preparations. “First one to get out, actually.”  
  
“I imagine you made sure of that, Switzerland,” England said.  
  
Switzerland just shrugged. “That’s why we sent him after you two, because he was already done with the game.”  
  
“Switzerland cheated!” Prussia yelled from where he was standing next to Australia. “He totally had it out for me!”  
  
“Aiming at my target and hitting it does not constitute cheating,” he snapped back, gritting his teeth.   
  
“But did you have to hit me in the face?”  
  
“You’re injured. I knew hitting you there wouldn’t affect your wounds.”  
  
“Lame excuse, Switzerland.”   
  
England sighed and rubbed his forehead, then cursed inwardly that Switzerland just had to knock Prussia out so early. If he hadn’t, perhaps he wouldn’t have interrupted him and America and…   
  
His cheeks grew hot. Never mind, it was good that he did. America had said himself that his actions didn’t mean anything after all. And the idea of doing something that meant nothing with America left him feeling hollow and just a little bit queasy.   
  
England shifted his eyes to America, who was still standing next to him, then quickly flitted them back away. He had been imagining the other man’s actions to be something they weren’t. America embracing him, America’s hand on his, America holding his shoulders.   
  
America shifting his hold on England’s shoulders, his blue eyes flickering behind the frames of his glasses, and then leaning forward and…  
  
He clenched his eyes shut, scarlet flush spreading across the rest of his face. That hadn’t happened. Where had that even  _come_  from?   
  
Shaking his head, he glanced beside him again, but America wasn’t there. In the moments England had been caught up in his reverie, America had slipped away and was now chatting animatedly with Australia and Prussia.   
  
 _What in the blazes is wrong with me?_  He walked over to Australia, observing the recommenced dodgeball game on the way. Romano was out now, and it was just Spain versus Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Prussia had just left Australia’s side and was now cheering Spain on, although England knew it was only a matter of time before Switzerland gained his victory.   
  
Australia gave him a wave and a greeting as he approached. England nodded in return. The other man was flipping patties of grilled meat onto a large plate. The fire pit he cooked over was scorching and the flames rose high, and England kept his distance, not liking the heat combined with the already substantial sweltering weather provided by the tropical climate. Around the fire pit were several logs, and that’s where they sat and ate every night on the island.   
  
“This is cool,” America said, relaxing on one of the logs with a glass of juice in hand. “It’s kind of like camping.”   
  
Australia grinned. “Glad you’re having fun, mate.”   
  
America watched the crackling fire. “We should have s’mores.”  
  
England scoffed. “For Christ’s sake America, we’re on a remote island in the--- “  
  
“Actually, I’ve got a Dutch oven I can cook up some cobbler in, but no marshmallows, sorry,” Australia chuckled. He went back to his cooking.  
  
America tentatively patted the log next to him and gestured toward England. “Sit down.”  
  
England poured himself a glass of juice from atop the small table Australia had set up, and slid down onto the log next to America. “What?”  
  
“S’nothing.” America shrugged, sipping his drink absently. “Just figured you’d stand over there by yourself until someone invited you to sit down with them.”   
  
“Is that a problem?” England furrowed his eyebrows.   
  
America glanced down to the glass in his hands. “No it just… it’s annoying to have to look over and see you all pissy and sulky over there.”   
  
“I wasn’t pissy!”   
  
“I also umm…” America’s voice lowered and he stirred his drink with his finger. “I kind of thought that you seem to spend a lot of time alone, don’t you?”  
  
“Well yes, but…” England bit his lip. “But don’t misunderstand. It’s by choice that I do that.”  
  
“I figured as much.”  
  
“Well then what does it matter?”  
  
America sighed. He averted his eyes to the sky and so did England. The sun was beginning to set on the island, golden yellows melting into deep orange and bright crimson, all reflected upon the surface of the almost unbelievably blue ocean. “I dunno. It just kind of… bugs me.”   
  
“O-oh… I see.”   
  
He felt a tap on his back and swiftly turned around to see Australia smiling down at him. “Food’s ready, England.”  
  
“Right then.” England shook his head and pushed himself off the log, coaxing America to join him and serving himself a plate of food from the small table. America followed and did the same. Australia yelled at the rest of the crew to come over, and they flocked to the table behind America and England.   


* * *

  
  
Dinner was a rowdy affair, as usual with the crew of the Victoria. Prussia vociferously told stories, Switzerland snapped at him, Romano yelled any time Spain looked at him funny, Sealand was cheeky, Liechtenstein was giggly, Australia was boisterous, and America also laughed and contributed quite often.   
  
England was quiet though, concentrating on the food on his plate as opposed to America sitting right next to him. He found that it was probably in his best interest to think of everything but America. But a thought did strike him, and he turned to ask him a question. “America?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Do you need to radio the base? You forgot last time so…”  
  
“Nah,” America replied, waving the query away with his hand. “They know I won’t be back tonight.”  
  
At this England’s eyes widened. “What?”  
  
America flushed and scratched the back of his head. “I mean it’s a long journey, and I can’t exactly head back tonight so…”   
  
“You  _planned_  on staying?” he dared to ask.   
  
America let out a nervous laugh. “Don’t worry I have a duffel bag of stuff, so it’s no big deal. I had one with me from a umm… previous mission, yeah.”   
  
“Of course,” England agreed, although he found America’s argument unconvincing. “Well there’s a cabin on the ship for you, as you know.”   
  
America grinned, slightly lopsided, very adorable (England berated himself for that addition). He looked away with a blush, instead focusing his eyes on the ocean. By now the sun had set, although the moon and the fire provided plenty of light. The tide had risen, taking Switzerland and Liechtenstein’s sandcastle with it as the waters lapped gently against the beach. With the other man beside him, despite the ruckus provided by the rest of the crew, he felt… peaceful. It was strange.   
  
“Awesome,” America finally replied.  
  
England realized that everyone else had long since finished their meals, the plates piled high on the table. He was the only one who still idly picked at it. He took a few bites to finish it off, then walked over to place it on the table, rejoining America after he did so.   
  
After everyone had enjoyed a plate of the cobbler Australia had promised, he motioned everyone to be quiet and moved his own log closer to the fire, prodding it with a large stick. “’Right mates, thought we might continue this party.”  
  
“With alcohol?” Prussia quipped.  
  
“You know where I keep the beer,” Australia chortled. “Feel free to break it out.” Prussia and Spain returned, holding a large bucket of ice filled with beer bottles, less than a minute later. “Didn’t waste time, you two.”  
  
Spain began passing them around, ignoring Sealand’s request for one and snatching him a bottle of soda instead.   
  
“So what are we doing?” Spain inquired as he sat back down, all of the adults now provided with a drink.   
  
“I’ve got a tale to tell. Thought the kids might enjoy a good scary story,” Australia began, and the firelight flickered over his face rather appropriately. Next to England, America stiffened noticeably.   
  
“Aw-awesome idea!” America stuttered, which bewildered England. “I’m a hero, so bring it on.”   
  
“Easy on, America,” Australia countered. “Anyway, this one is about the deathbirds and that live on this very island.”   
  
“Deathbirds?” America bit his lip, fear flashing in his eyes. England gave him a reproachful look. Surely he was jesting, the story hadn’t even begun. But he did recall the first night he’d met America.  _“Oh good. I was so afraid you were a ghost!”_    
  
Well, that whole scene made a lot more sense to him now.   
  
“You can hear them cryin’ right now, really.” Australia pointed to the forest, from which indeed, a rather mournful chorus of bird calls emitted. “And every night, they’re out. There’s hundreds of them on this island.”  
  
England felt pressure on his arm, and looked down to see that America had grasped it. “Honestly,” he chided. America just looked at him, a sheepish smile on his face.   
  
“Well they’re not just birds, they’re messengers,” Australia continued. “Those aren’t bird calls you’re hearing, they’re cries. And every time one of them cries it means someone has…”  
  
“AHHHHH!” America jumped and clung unto England tighter, now burying his face in his shoulder.   
  
The rest of the crew just blinked. “You’re joking, right?” Prussia snickered.   
  
“S-shut up, it’s scary!” America argued feebly. England really tried his damndest to shove America off in frustration, but the truth was that the hitherto almost fearless man clinging to him as if it were the end of the world (over a silly ghost story no less), was almost… endearing. And he knew his face must have been red as a beet at America’s close contact. He looked pitiful, his eyes wide and his glasses askew from crashing into England. His mouth had formed into a perpetual pout.   
  
“Going on then?” Australia chuckled. “Well yes, when one of them cries it means someone has died.” America made a noise again, which Australia ignored. “But here’s what makes it really frightening.” His eyes flickered in the firelight. “These birds don’t just go crying about because someone has died.” He paused. “They make that noise because the souls of the dead possess the birds before passing onto the next world. And for just a moment…” Australia held up his finger. “The dead suffer one more cry of pain, such pain, can you hear it now?” Another bird called. “Not something I’m looking forward to when I die, mind you.”   
  
America was now holding onto England so tightly that he was concerned about the circulation in his arm. When another bird’s call came from the forest, his grip only strengthened.   
  
“That’s lame,” Sealand said, and Liechtenstein shyly nodded in agreement.   
  
“Ha! I bet you’ll all have nightmares tonight,” America argued, his voice shaking.   
  
“Highly doubt it,” Romano snorted.   
  
“Just you watch!” he protested. “If a hero is scared by this story, then you all must be terrified!”   
  
“I can tell another one?” Australia cocked an eyebrow.   
  
“Possibly not the best idea,” England replied. America was against his shoulder, shaking his head in the negative. He rolled his eyes, but unthinkingly, he stroked his hand through America’s hair.  


* * *

  
  
America required that England accompany him to his plane in order to retrieve his duffel bag, which he groused about, but did nonetheless. And with every step and every noise; a wave crashing against the shore, the breaking of a twig, the rustling of leaves, America would flinch, squeak, or jump. It was… absolutely ridiculous.   
  
“How can a trained military captain be so scared of a meager ghost story?” England asked as they walked back to the ship for the night, America’s duffel bag slung over the his own back. He considered that perhaps the other man was faking it, but if he were, he was a damn good actor. And well, he had expressed fear of ghosts the first night they’d met. When they’d gone to retrieve the bag together, Prussia (who was downing beers with Spain), had quipped that he’d done it to get ‘closer to England.’ Embarrassing, but not surprising, coming from Prussia.   
  
America frowned. “It was really scary!”  
  
They boarded the ship. “I have to admit, I’m astonished,” England said. America cocked his head at him. “I mean, you act like you aren’t afraid of anything, to the point of being extremely stupid.”  
  
America shuffled his feet back and forth on the deck. “I’m afraid of… things.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
“Then what’s the big deal?”  
  
England sighed. “It’s more that you’re actually showing it, and in such an… extravagant manner.”  
  
America shrugged. “Scary stories are my weakness, I guess.” He grinned weakly. “Even someone as great as I am has one of those.”  
  
England actually chuckled at this. “You’re preposterous, you know?”   
  
America was still jumping at every sudden sound, and England could hear Prussia and Spain on the beach, loudly singing, their drunken songs having little to no lyrical or rhythmic coherency.   
  
Silence lapsed, and England noticed that America had stopped walking.  
  
“Hey England,” he finally spoke.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Can you umm…” And his cheeks were redder than England had ever seen them. “Would you mind staying in my bedroom until I fall asleep?”  
  
“What?” England’s green eyes grew large and he flushed. “W-w-what are you implying?”  
  
America blinked, oblivious. “I just know I won’t be able to get to sleep! Every time I get scared, I just sit in bed staring at shadows and…”   
  
“All right,” England agreed. “If you’re pathetic enough to need that, there’s no real reason for me not to do it.”  
  
He frowned. “Not pathetic…”   
  
He’d started walking again, and now they were making their way down the stairs into the lower ship.  
  
“How is that not pathetic?”  
  
America gritted his teeth at that. “What’s worse, wanting someone by your side as you go to sleep, or isolating yourself from everyone all the time?”  
  
England blinked, taken aback. “It’s…” He was surprised that America, in his panicked state, had managed something so sensical. He pushed open the door to the cabin the pilot would be staying in. “It’s not at all true that the two situations are alike.” America toed off his shoes and plopped down onto the bed, slipping the covers over him and nuzzling into the pillow. He threw his duffel bag onto the floor. “You must be tired.” He nodded and patted a free space on the edge of the bed. “Well I was going to sit in a chair but…”   
  
America yawned. “You’re not allowed to leave until I’m definitely asleep.”   
  
“All right.” This was insane, England thought. But America, who had just removed his glasses and placed them on the night table, who was now rubbing his eyes and then tucking the comforter up underneath his chin, was… difficult to resist. He’d already accepted that he thought America was attractive, but he now was having to come to terms, and had been for the entire evening, with how strangely endearing he was.   
  
He glanced warmly at America, secretly hoping that the other man would see the gentle way in which he looked at him. But he was already asleep; England’s presence alone apparently was enough. Asleep he looked naïve, vulnerable, and young, the bravado that sustained him when he was conscious stripped away. It was like seeing inside him, seeing who he really was. Tenderly, with a feather light touch, he stroked America’s cheek. He watched him, not once moving to leave, ignoring the way his eyelids grew heavy with sleep.   
  
He felt something surge up within him, bubbling to the surface, no matter how hard he tried to push it down.  
  
And at that moment, America’s peaceful face contorted into something else, a frown and his eyes clenched shut and he made a noise, obviously one of fear.  _A nightmare?_  Then he reached up, grabbing for whatever was closest.  
  
It was England, who was rather unceremoniously yanked down into the bed with America. He struggled to pull away, but the other man’s grip on him was firm. America’s arms were wrapped around his center and his face was nuzzling his back. “A-America, I can’t!” His cheeks bloomed scarlet.  
  
“Stay,” America murmured against his back, and England wasn’t sure if the other man was asleep or awake. “Don’t leave. It’s dark… and I hate being alone.”  
  
He must have been asleep, but England didn’t have the heart to try and pull out of his arms again. It was pitiful and all a bit tragic, the hero’s weak point, and he found that it… just made him grow fonder of him.   
  
England relaxed, running his hands over America’s and speaking in a soothing voice. “I won’t leave you America. I’ll stay here tonight.”  
  
He felt America nod, and England listened to the rhythm of his breathing, the soft puffs of air against his back being the only sound in the room outside his own breaths. It was a soothing noise, an unfamiliar noise, his own breathing in tandem with another person’s. Someone else’s arms encircling him, holding him because his, _England’s presence_ , was what they needed.   
  
“Thanks…” America loosened his grip, but still held the other man. “Thanks, England.”  
  
And that something that was bubbling to the surface within England burst.   
  
It was mad really, and he hadn’t the slightest idea if he even had a chance, but England realized that perhaps, he was rather in love with America.   
  
He groaned. Prussia had been right all along. 


	16. Cute for a Pirate

When America had woken up with his arms around England, he’d nearly leapt off the bed in shock. It was the sight of his sleeping face, illuminated by the morning sun peeking through the porthole, that stopped him. England slept peacefully, the dull hum of his breathing entering America’s ears. He ran his eyes down the other man’s face, finding it difficult to look away. His lips were slightly parted, and America noticed the wound from the Kosmider attack on his cheek. It was pale pink, almost healed.   
  
He appeared content, and America found that a warmth in his chest erupted at seeing him like this. It was… as if he were witness to something private, a part of England that not many were allowed to see. Or at least, he assumed. He couldn’t imagine that England slept freely in front of many people.   
  
Sandy blond hair splayed out behind England on the pillow, and his choppy bangs dusted his forehead. Unthinkingly, he reached forward and sifted his fingers through England’s bangs.   
  
Below that were his eyebrows, and America grinned a little upon seeing them.   
  
They were pretty hard to miss, so it made sense that France walked away from his encounters with England remembering them so vividly. But in contrast to France’s impression, America found that he thought they were well, sort of  _cute._    
  
Absently, his fingers moved from his bangs to his thick dark brows, and he chuckled to himself as he noted that they were slightly furrowed, even in his sleep.   
  
England had slept with him the previous night. He didn’t recall pulling England into bed with him, but knowing himself, he wasn’t that surprised that he’d done so. Canada and Japan had been victims of his ghost story phobia more than once, and had ended up innocently sharing a bunk with him some of those evenings. But it was that England had accepted, that England hadn’t shoved him off and stormed to his own cabin, that shocked him. Those weren’t the actions of a comrade, but the actions of something more. A close friend, at least.   
  
And he really liked that. Somewhere along the line, it had ceased mattering much to America that England was a pirate. There were times in which he’d forget that he was one entirely.   
  
England was England. It was as simple as that.   
  
“What the hell are you doing?” a voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked down to see England staring at him, green eyes blearily opening.   
  
America pulled his fingers away from England’s face swift as he could manage, and he backed up against the wall and turned his face away in attempt to hide his inevitably red face. He’d been caught, with his fingers on England’s  _eyebrows._  How embarrassing firstly, and also how  _weird_  must England think him. “Um… watching you?”  
  
“T-touching me like that?” he huffed, sitting up and stifling a rather large yawn. “I thought you didn’t like the way I looked. You… said so that time we were in the kitchen.” England crossed his arms, his cheeks now lightly flushed.   
  
“W-what? I didn’t say that.” America’s eyes grew wide and he shook his head in the negative, gesturing wildly with his hands in front of him.   
  
“You sort of did.”  
  
“Well then I didn’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice almost indiscernible. He was face to face with England now, having turned back when he’d shaken his head.   
  
And England’s face exploded, red as a cherry tomato.   
  
America had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. His face was bright as crimson and his eyes were so wide and his eyebrows had shot up into his forehead.   
  
“L-let’s go to breakfast,” England finally stammered. He was glancing away from America, slightly downcast as if he were unable to make eye contact with him. There was a pitiful excuse for a pout on his lips, a sure attempt to hide the fact that he was pleased by America’s admission.  
  
And America smiled to himself. He couldn't deny that actually, England was pretty damn cute on the whole. For a pirate.

* * *

  
  
Australia cooked up a delicious breakfast, scrambled eggs, greasy sausages, crispy bacon, and pancakes with plenty of syrup to slather all over them. That made up for the awkward atmosphere on the beach that morning at least somewhat. Or at least, awkward for him. He should have known that everyone would know England had slept in his room. It would have only taken one person peeking into his cabin to discover it, and judging by the way Prussia snickered at him every time their eyes met, Spain gave him this knowing smile, and Switzerland glared at him, there was simply no doubt they knew.   
  
England, who sat next to him, was no doubt receiving the same treatment.   
  
Prussia and Spain were both suffering from mild hangovers, so they weren’t as talkative as the night before. Australia gave them both drinks he’d mixed up to help them get over the effects, because as he said ‘we’ll have lots of work to do today, mates.’   
  
Romano yawned beside Spain, unthinkingly leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder. This earned a warm smile from Spain. America tapped his chin in thought and stood up, walking over to Romano with an earnest grin.   
  
“You done eating, Romano?” he inquired.  
  
“Do you see a plate?” he grumbled in return, a sour expression on his face.   
  
America blinked. Romano had indeed, already thrown his dirty plate onto the table. “Oh right. Then can I talk to ya?”  
  
Romano’s brows creased in confusion at this, but he nodded. “Yeah, sure. Don’t see why not.”   
  
“I mean sorry to interrupt you and Spain but--- “  
  
He blushed hotly and shoved Spain away, pushing himself off the log and standing up. Romano clenched a fist and shouted, “You’re not interrupting me! I just kind of fell onto that jerk Spain because I was tired. It’s good you came because now he can’t take advantage of me!”   
  
America glanced to Spain, who sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. He gestured America to go on with his free hand.   
  
“Okay…” He shrugged. “Follow me then, Romano.” They walked together wordlessly to the far edge of the beach, closest to the landing pad. America stopped and Romano did the same. “I kind of want to talk to you about your brother?” he began.  
  
Romano stiffened. “What of him?”  
  
“It’s nothing bad!” America placed his hands in front of him. Romano relaxed, relieved. “Your brother was the same. When I mentioned you, he immediately acted as if something bad must have happened…”  
  
“Well you can’t blame us.” Romano crossed his arms. “It’s pretty shitty out there right now. Anyway, how do you know Veneziano?”  
  
“Oh! We went on a mission together… actually it was,” America hesitated, the lack of results the mission had yielded still frustrating to him, “to find out information about the Kosmider. We didn’t really find much.”   
  
“So what do you have to tell me?”  
  
“I told your brother about what happened with the Nuberu and the Kosmider and…”  
  
“You did?!” Romano snapped.  
  
“Yeah I mean… why not?”  
  
At this, the perpetually scowling Romano softened. “I just… I don’t like to see him worry, okay?”   
  
“Makes sense.” America sat on the edge of the flight pad, the concrete hot beneath him. He glanced over to the edge of the forest, and made a note to take a hike before leaving. It was… really beautiful. “But I thought it was only fair, and… have you really not seen each other for six months?”  
  
Romano shrugged and sat down next to him. “We really don’t have many chances, but I try to radio him at least.”   
  
“Couldn’t he just fly in and see you?” America asked, turning his feet inward.  
  
“Veneziano’s not a pilot,” he replied shortly. “It’s not as easy for us at it is for you and Captain Kirkland.”   
  
America flushed at the implication there (if there indeed, even was one). “Can I just tell you the same thing I told him?”  
  
“…I guess.”  
  
America took Romano’s shoulders, merely tightening his hold when he began to pull away. He looked directly at him, blue eyes stern. “Keep your brother close… okay?”   
  
“It’s none of your busi---“  
  
“Radio him or whatever, if you haven’t already. And dammit, just make sure you see him!” America continued.   
  
Romano nodded. “Chh, if you insist.”   
  
“Good.” America beamed.   
  
Romano frowned and slid off the landing pad. “…Thanks,” he murmured.   
  
“Huh?” But he’d already started walking away. America watched him leave, heading back to the area of the beach Spain was occupying. He rested his chin on his hand and absently toyed with the fob watch that hung at his belt. The tropical sun burned, growing stronger as the morning lingered on. America reached down and slipped off his hot black boots and socks, rolling up his pants as well. He sifted his toes through the scorching sand, feeling rather like he’d like to take a dip in the cool ocean water.   
  
England had barely spoken to him since that humiliating moment in the cabin that morning. He didn’t know if he’d upset England, the whole situation had embarrassed him, or just a combination of both. As much as he felt that he knew England so much better than he had before he’d visited this island, his emotions were still so often a mystery to him. He was unpredictable, hot and cold and all over the place. It was both amusing and a bit frustrating. America really wanted to understand England, after all.  
  
He wasn’t just not talking though; he avoided looking at him entirely. America had tried to shoot him tentative smiles at several points throughout breakfast, only for England to turn his face away and not acknowledge them. America bit his lip.  _I really should take a dip to clear my head…_  
  
He was about to stand up when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Before America could even turn around, Prussia was sitting down next to him. “’Sup boy toy?” America blushed. “Well I guess if I actually want to talk to you, I should call you by your name.”  
  
“Can you  _always_  call me by my name?” America asked.  
  
“Not making any promises,” Prussia replied with a shrug. “But I do kinda want to talk to you about England.” He slapped his hand on America’s arm. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”  
  
“Umm…” America frowned.   
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He grinned. “Firstly, I want to say I’m actually sorry for walking in on you two yesterday. It was funny at the time, but I feel bad because… you totally could have gotten somewhere I bet, if I hadn’t done that.”  
  
“N-nothing was happening!” America held his hands up and shook his head fervently.   
  
“I didn’t say anything was,” Prussia countered. “I said that something  _could_  have happened.”   
  
America opened his mouth to speak again, but Prussia cut him off. “I get enough denial from England so just… listen to me, okay man?” America nodded. “And I also know nothing happened between you two last night, much as it would have been awesome. Doesn’t make you two sleeping together not funny, though.” He was  _still_ smirking, and this just made the entire conversation even more humiliating.   
  
Prussia now moved his arm up and put it around America’s shoulders in a friendly manner. “But hey you know what? I like you. You’re a pretty cool guy.”  
  
“’Course I am!” America finally got in.  
  
“And if England can get over the fact that you’re military enough to trust you like he has… well damn,” Prussia paused, “who the hell am I to disagree with that?”   
  
“E-England can rely on me, that’s all. We’re comrades,” America argued weakly.  
  
Prussia sighed. “You really have no idea how big that is, do you?” He leaned back on his hands and looked skyward. “England would kill me for telling you this shit, but I’m going to anyway.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I don’t know how many times we’ve been at a bar together, and I’d spot a hot guy and point them out to England…”  
  
“A hot  _guy_?”  
  
“Yeah, no shit,” Prussia snorted. “I thought that was obvious.” He winked. “And you’re a guy so…”  
  
“Shut up!” America snapped, cheeks red.   
  
“Anyway, England pretends he’s not interested. He’s a captain, he has important work, and he doesn’t have  _time_ to flirt about. Just the kind of excuses you’d expect from him.” Prussia shifted, so he was now facing America. “But me? I think he’s just lonely, and he’s like… afraid of stuff like that.”   
  
“So he is lonely…” America mumbled, more to himself than anything else.  
  
“We’re all really close to England,” Prussia replied, having obviously heard America’s murmur. “And so it’s not like he doesn’t have friends, ‘cuz he does. But there’s still this kind of weird guard he keeps up.”  
  
“Yeah, tell me about it.”  
  
“Heh. Well you’re kind of… he’s kind of different with you,” Prussia paused. “Good different. It’s a pretty awesome thing to see, to be honest. I just want you to know that I’m rooting for you two, and…”  
  
“Me and England are friends,” America interrupted.   
  
“Do you blush when talking about friends all the time?” Prussia rolled his eyes, and America recalled France making a very similar comment. “I mean I know England’s not bad looking, but that kind of reaction…” he trailed off and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.   
  
 _He’s pretty damn cute_ , America recalled the thought crossing his mind earlier; when England was flustered and huffing and acting as if he were scandalized. The way that he acted so over the top like that was… yeah, he’d found him cute. England was nice to look at okay, he’d admitted it to himself. He pouted and bit his lip. He could acknowledge when someone was good-looking, but it normally didn’t make his face heat up to think about…  
  
“But… I just in the end wanted to apologize for what I did yesterday, and wish you two luck because…” he laughed. “I really do want England to be happy, you know? He’s my captain and my friend. And you’re a pretty awesome, if unexpected, way for him to get that.”   
  
“Okay,” was all America could manage, too caught up in his own thoughts to formulate much more of a reply.   
  
“Awesome.” Prussia smacked him on the back and stood up. “I’m gonna go drink my mid-morning beer… now that my hangover’s gone.”   
  
Prussia walked away, leaving America alone on the edge of the flight pad again. He sifted his feet through the sand once more, thinking that swim in the cerulean sea was sounding even better than it had several minutes ago. He picked up his boots and tucked the socks inside, sliding off the ledge and brushing the rear of his pants off. He had a spare pair of pants, so it wouldn’t be a problem to just swim in the ones he was wearing. He slid his belt and watch off and stuffed them in the boots as well.   
  
The water was gorgeous, and he considered that perhaps he could swim out a bit more and take a peek at the coral reef. When he was descending in his plane, he could tell that it began only about fifty meters out from the shore.   
  
He made his way to the edge of the beach, enjoying the way the sand grew wetter, thus cooler, beneath his bare feet as he came closer to the surf. Temperate water lapped at his feet when he reached it, and he squished his feet into the sand, wriggling his toes. It had been a while since he’d really had time to go to a beach.   
  
America deposited his boots where the sand was still dry, and with a grin, ran into the water and let the waves lap against his ankles, then his knees, his thighs and---  
  
“America!”  
  
“Oh damn,” he cursed, turning around. But it was England calling his name, England waving at him from the beachfront. He felt his irritation ebb. At least he was  _talking_  to him.   
  
“Yeah?” America yelled back.  
  
“Can you come ashore? I have some things I need to show you.”   
  
“Aw, in the middle of my swimming, England?” America shouted back, although he was making his way back to the beach as he did so.  
  
“Well it’s important. I should do it while I’m thinking about it,” England replied once America had stepped out of the surf.   
  
America noticed that England still wasn’t making eye contact him, and he found it frustrating. “Okay…”  
  
“It’s in my cabin, come along then,” he said crisply, a bit more distant than he’d been the previous day.  
  
America gulped as he walked alongside him to the ship. “H-hey England?”  
  
“What is it, America?”  
  
“Did I do something to upset you?” he asked quietly. “I mean not that I probably did, but-- “  
  
“No, it’s nothing you did, America,” England interrupted. “At least… not directly,” he added beneath his breath.  
  
“Oh. Are you sure?”   
  
“Quite.”  
  
“Then what’s got you down?” America queried. “Is it something to do with the Kosmider?”  
  
And England, knowing an excuse when he saw one, nodded. “Yes, that’s been bugging me today. That’s actually why I need you to come to my cabin. I have some information.”   
  
“Oh—oh that’s great! How did you manage to get that?” he asked excitedly.  
  
“I have a contact, a merchant. He has a contact within the Kosmider that’s leaking the information,” England explained.   
  
“Awesome!”  
  
They continued walking to the ship, conversation between them having ceased completely. America noted with disappointment that it didn’t make much sense for England to not look at him because he was upset about the Kosmider. 

* * *

  
  
The first thing England pulled out from his desk drawer when they reached the cabin was a piece of paper, but before he did so, he forced America to make a promise. “If you meet anyone on this list, you are not to hurt them. In your case, I imagine that would mean that you are not to turn them over to the military either. I suppose… you could bring them to my ship, if you caught one of them. We could keep them prisoner here.”  
  
“Wha-?” America blinked, reaching for the paper. England pulled it back.  
  
“My source of information has a friend in the Kosmider, and it’s one of these people,” England explained. “My promise in exchange for the information was that I wouldn’t harm that friend.”   
  
“But they’re evil!”  
  
“Oh shut up,” England sighed. “If he’s giving this merchant information on the Kosmider, he obviously doesn’t want to be a part of it.”   
  
America sat down on the edge of England’s bed and looked down. “Well then why don’t they leave?”  
  
England rubbed his forehead, in between his eyebrows. “I imagine it’s not that simple. You really are naïve…”   
  
“Yeah, I hear that a lot,” America grumbled.  
  
“Only because it’s true,” England quipped. “I haven’t the foggiest why they’re a member, but I imagine they’re staying around for the information or because…” he lowered his voice, "perhaps they’re afraid to try and leave.”   
  
America nodded. “Okay, I promise.”  
  
“You do realize,” England said, toying with the piece of paper between his fingers, “that in order to keep that promise, you may have to defy the military? If you have a member of the Kosmider and don’t turn him or her in…”  
  
His eyes widened. “I’d get in a lot of trouble, I guess.”   
  
“Yes, I imagine you would,” England sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to force you to defy your superiors. It’s fine if you don’t want this paper. I’m sure us pirates can take care of things well enough without--- “  
  
“Give it to me.” He held his hand out.  
  
“What?” England’s eyebrows shot up.  
  
America glanced away, staring at the headboard of the bed. “People are dying… I can’t worry about… things like that. ” Then he grinned. “Heroes fight for the good of the world, no matter what!”   
  
At this, England did finally look at him, straight in the face. And he smiled, and America felt his heart quicken at that rare expression.  
  
“You really are something, America.”  
  
“Hey that’s not---“  
  
“I don’t mean that as an insult,” England clarified. “Not at all.”  
  
England handed him the slip of paper, and America scrolled down the list of names.   
  
 _Alfroskaya, Belarus, Von Bock, Estonia..._  He continued reading, a list of forty or so names, almost all at least vaguely Medvedian. And the last name on the list,  _Lorinaitis, Lithuania._


	17. His Champion

Beads of sweat trickled down England’s brow, and he shielded it, the late-morning sun burning bright on the deck of the ship. Australia couldn’t manage repairing the sails by himself, so the Victoria crew had been recruited to assist him. England was more than willing. He’d offered to help Australia, but had been turned down and told to rest at several points before that morning.   
  
Prussia, Spain, Romano, Liechtenstein, and Sealand were mending the sails, needle and thread weaving back and forth through the sturdy material.   
  
Switzerland, who along with England, was the only member of the Victoria crew that was both uninjured and an adult, was sitting atop the bow, hammer in hand and nails held in between his teeth as he repaired and replaced the splintered wood. Australia was lugging timber aboard the deck.   
  
England held one side of a long saw, the wood handle held tightly in one of his hands. His other hand, his injured hand, grasped it with far less force as it sawed through the thick lumber. Australia had suggested that they replace the back boom entirely as it has suffered substantial damage. That’s what England was working on at the moment, and at the other end of the saw, moving in unison with him, was America.   
  
America’s sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders, revealing his tanned arms and his smooth but still well defined muscles. The sun had already dried his wet pants, and he’d retrieved his boots from the beach. His blue eyes shone behind the frames of his glasses, and England flushed when he ran one sweaty palm through his soft blond hair.  
  
England fluttered a bit at that, and it was made worse when America leveled him with a warm, but still cocksure, grin.  
  
If England wasn’t certain of otherwise, he would swear the other man was flirting with him; or at the very least teasing him by attempting to make himself look as attractive as humanly possible (and being rather successful at it). It would have been foolish for him to have ever denied that America was good-looking, ridiculously so, in fact. He had admitted that to himself long before now. But there was a substantial difference between acknowledging the mere fact that America was handsome and doing what he was doing now. Staring, and taking in every detail of his physique as if he wished to commit it to memory. Doing this, it was new.   
  
England shook his head and averted his eyes down to the saw entirely, so all he could see now was America’s hands; hands he ached to take in his own.   
  
“Thanks,” America’s voice interrupted his musings.   
  
“What?” England asked, glancing halfway up. America let go of the saw, and he did so as well.   
  
America rubbed the nape of his neck. “For the information. I mean, for trusting me with it and stuff…”   
  
England’s eyes widened, and he looked away. After America had pocketed the list of ranked Kosmider members, he’d followed up by informing him of everything else Poland had told him. “It’s… no problem.”  
  
He felt a clap on his shoulder and started, for a moment expecting it to be America. But America was still standing across from him. He sighed to himself, frustrated at his own behavior. He looked up. “Australia.”  
  
“You think your aviator friend can help me out with something?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.   
  
“Uh, what is it?” America walked over to stand by Australia’s side. England blinked. America had been surprisingly willing to help out with the repairs of the ship. He speculated that he’d say no, giving the excuse that he ‘can’t help fix a pirate ship,’ but instead he’d agreed with a smile and a shrug and a simple ‘sure, why not.’   
  
“You’re pretty strong, right?”   
  
“Of course I am!” America quipped, confidently.  
  
“Brilliant! I need someone to climb up the main mast, to the gaffing.” He pointed up amongst the wood of the ship. “Take a hammer and a few nails, and I’ll tell you what to do when you get up there.”  
  
“I can take care of that Australia…” England cut in.  
  
America shook his head. “Nah. S’okay, I can do it. Your hand’s not healed after all and… I mean it’s easy enough.”   
  
England huffed and crossed his arms, thick eyebrows rising. “You think climbing the blasted mast is easy? I assure you it requires quite a lot of strength to do it.”   
  
America slapped a hand on his bare bicep and smirked, then, most maddening of all, he winked. “I think I can handle it, Captain.” England’s face bloomed red. He thought that America must have been either completely oblivious to what he was doing to him, or totally aware. He scowled and turned away in embarrassment.   
  


* * *

  
  
America had no trouble climbing the mast, and he crowed his triumph upon reaching the point where the gaff met the mast. “Wow! That was so hard,” he yelled down. “It’s a good thing I’m strong, otherwise I definitely would have--- “  
  
“Oh shut the hell up!” England shouted back, hands on his hips. America chuckled, loud enough that it could be heard down on the deck.   
  
England watched as Australia gave America specific instructions. He wanted the gaff’s connection to the mast to be secured, as it had come loose during the battle with the Kosmider. America followed his instructions easily, but England was paying little attention to that.  
  
He really hated how striking America was, perched on the mast with the sun shining behind him and illuminating him to the point of glowing. That was, coupled with exuding his natural charisma, which could have just as easily been called his natural obnoxiousness. And then there was his rear, which England could see quite well from where he was standing. Well that was undeniably a nice view.  
  
Since he’d woken up that morning, England’s mind had been a jumbled mess. And it just got worse the more time he spent with America. He thought that perhaps, as he registered the first vestiges of consciousness in the morning, that he’d merely come to the conclusion that he was in love with America due to how fatigued he’d been the previous night. It made sense. Lack of sleep did funny things. But then he’d realized that America was touching him, stroking his face, his eyebrows, and the doubt had left his mind. It wasn’t America’s actions that had caused that, but his expression. In the quiet instant before he’d registered that England was awake, before England had spat at him in irritation, there had been something in America’s face that had caused the same warmth to bubble to the surface and explode just as it had done before he’d slipped off into sleep the night before.   
  
England hadn’t the foggiest idea what to do next. He could confront him point blank about it, but that would surely result in disaster. He could pursue America, court him, as old fashioned as that sounded; flowers, moonlit walks, all the lot.   
  
England thought, that he really must have been the biggest fool this side of the Paradi Sea. America was just about the last person who he should have allowed to slip into his heart like this. He was military. A blasted soldier! And had all his hatred and anger toward that meant nothing, when now, just one flash of America’s almost ever present smile caused him to practically forget that he was even part of that institution he so despised?   
  
He recalled less than an hour before, when America had looked at him with conviction as he'd demanded the Kosmider list, not a fleck of doubt in his expression. America had proven himself to England as a man of honor, and yes, a  _hero_ , even. He chuckled a bit at that. So all right, even though it made a part of him scream in protest, he could, perhaps, deal with America being a soldier.   
  
But there was still the fact that England was well, a pirate, and he had no idea if America, on the ghost of a chance that he felt the same, could forgive that.  
  
So England decided that he could, and unfortunately to him this seemed like the best idea, merely do nothing and hope that the feelings ebbed, the fire died and cooled into just fondness and friendship. He tried to convince himself that it would probably be better for his sanity if nothing happened between them. It’s not like America would be interested anyway. Maybe there was nothing. Perhaps America would fly off in his plane and they’d not see each other again, or they’d team up against the Kosmider, and then once that was over with, America would go back to his aviation force base and never think of England again. He hated that idea the most.   
  
America was scooting down the mast now, and Australia called for a lunch break. Switzerland hopped off the bow, and the rest of the crew ceased their mending, jumping to their feet and heading to the beach.   
  


* * *

  
America was  _going_  to swim, and no one was going to interrupt him this time. The invigorating blue water, the color of paradise, beckoned him once more, and he slid out of his pants so he could swim in his boxers. His shirt joined his pants, his boots, his watch, his belt, and his socks by the beach, and he ran into the surf once more.   
  
Romano and Spain were sitting in the shallows, letting the cool water run across the pink-red burns on their bodies. Prussia was now joining them, the sea lapping at the wound on his back as he swallowed down a bottle of beer.   
  
America darted past them, splashing as he did so. He stopped when the water was up to his chest and slid his eyes shut; sinking down into the ocean so only his shoulders and head were visible. Being surrounded so closely by a reef, the waves were small, but he rode them anyway, bobbing up and down with their undulations. He dug his toes into the sand, wiggling them, then grinning at the feeling of a fish flicking his leg with a fin as it swam by.   
  
“Awesome,” he said to himself as he began to journey out further, intent on reaching the reef. The water was to his shoulders when he glanced back, and it wasn’t the distance from the shore that caught his eye (he wasn’t more than twenty meters out), but rather the dock. England was sitting on the end of it again, legs hanging over the side and feet dangling in the water. He could make out a book perched in England’s hand, only barely.   
  
“Is this what he does every day?” America grumbled to himself, swimming back against the surf to the shore. Gauging the direction and distance he needed to reach the dock, he slipped underwater and swam toward England, popping up beside the dock and shaking his soaking blond locks as he did so.  
  
England nearly dropped his book. “Fucking hell, America. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” He closed the book and slammed it down on the wood beside him.   
  
America shrugged, then leaned his elbows on the side of the dock, right beside England. “Do you ever I don’t know… have fun?”  
  
“I do believe I’ve told you, this  _is_  fun for me.” He pointedly glared at America.  
  
America sighed, rather dramatically. “Hey England.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“You’re lonely,” he replied, his voice small.  
  
England blinked, green eyes expressing his bewilderment. “I spend time alone. It’s different. Again, as I  _have told you before_ , it’s by choice.”   
  
“Damn, England,” America gritted his teeth and sent a small splash at him, wetting his rolled up pants.   
  
“Stop that!”  
  
“You’re twenty-two years old and you’re a freakin’ pirate, but you act like some kind of stodgy old man half the time!” America’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout. "It’s stupid.”  
  
“Stupid?” England barked. “Something being ‘stupid’ is rich coming from you.”  
  
At this, America’s eyes flashed and England was very glad he’d put his book down, because America grabbed him around the waist and yanked him into the water.   
  
“Bloody hell!” England shoved at America’s chest, but he held fast. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?” The water was up to England’s chest, and the small waves lapped against his white shirt, soaking it even to his shoulders.   
  
“Swimming,” America replied, as if it were obvious. “You?”  
  
“Being forced into the water by an idiot,” England grumbled, crossing his arms as well as he could with America’s grip on his waist. He was sure that the his touch was causing his cheeks to burn.   
  
America just shrugged. “You may not think you’re lonely… but…” He glanced down at the water. “But I know you are!”  
  
“How do you kno—“  
  
“I just do!” America interrupted, tightening his grip on England’s waist. They were still standing quite a bit apart, as America’s arms were long. “So I’ve decided, that I’m going to make it my personal hero’s mission to make sure you’re not!”   
  
“Wha--- “  
  
“Not lonely, of course,” America clarified, and his cheeks were slightly pink. England’s eyes grew large and his breath hitched in his throat. He could hear his heart speed up, and he willed it to slow down, but he knew it wouldn’t.   
  
“So you wish to be my champion?” England finally managed, slight amusement in his voice.  
  
“Huh?” America blinked, nonplussed.   
  
England sighed. “Never mind.” America had still not let go of him, and he found his eyes wandering to his bare chest, taking in the curves and the dips and wanting, truly wanting to touch it. “Fuck,” he said out loud.  
  
America furrowed his brows. “What?” He paused. “Oh, you mean like a knight! Yeah, sure. That’s just another word for hero, after all!” He beamed at England, that smile that he had such trouble tearing his eyes away from.   
  
America’s hands were warm and firm around his waist, so close, and every few seconds, he’d shift, as if running his hands up and down his back; which was surely not the case.   
  
“…All right,” England whispered.  
  
“Ah?”  
  
“I said, all right,” he repeated, cheeks pink. “If you think you can cure my… so called loneliness, who am I to stop you?” It was stupid. America was just on one of his missions of righteousness, but England thought that maybe, perhaps, this was the best chance he was going to get.   
  
America’s grin, if possible, grew. England barely had time to register that though, as he was pulled toward America in a bone crushing hug.   
  
Now there was no space between them. America’s head was resting near his shoulder, and his arms were tight around his mid back.  
  
His naked chest was pressed against England, and his half-bare arms were stiff as they touched the taut skin he’d been eyeing just a moment before.   
  
And America was definitely not wearing his normal pants. England managed to look down enough to see the waistline of a pair of red boxers. Oh.  _Well…_    
  
 _Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?_  England wanted to say, but the words died on his lips. His pants were feeling tighter, and he hoped to everything in the world that America didn’t notice. If he hadn’t already been in cool water, he imagined it would have been worse.   
  
“I’m glad!” America finally said, his breath tickling England’s shoulder as he spoke. And he noticed that America's eyes were closed as he leaned against him, which caused just a bit more blood to rush to his face.   
  
Small waves lapped into and around them, and there was no noise but that, as well as the distant voices of England’s crewmates’ on the shore.   
  
It was America that started to pull away first, and England felt a pang at this. But whether intentional or not, his cheek brushed against England’s as he did so.   
  
They froze, mere centimeters from each other.  
  
America’s eyes had never looked bluer, accentuated by the bright sea they stood in and the sky they both loved and complimented by the dusting of red on his cheeks.   
  
He closed his eyes and leaned in, just that fraction of a breath, and America must have done so as well, because England knew that he hadn’t covered the full space between them before their lips met.   
  
His heart leapt, color burst behind his eyes, and England registered first that America’s lips tasted of salt water. And they were warm just like the rest of him, and soft, and really, he was quite a smashing kisser if he did say so. There were hands running along his back and then through the choppy blond hair that hit the nape of his neck, and those hands could only belong to---  
  
America was kissing him back. The cynic in him, strong as it was, couldn’t form any kind of argument against the fact that America was very much running his fingers through England’s hair and kissing him, so undeniably kissing him. And there was a moment in which America’s tongue flickered forward, although perhaps England had imagined that, but nonetheless, he opened up his mouth slightly and gave purchase, allowing the other man to slide his tongue in and England did the same and entered America’s parted lips and…  
  
Something was forming inside of him, warm and inviting and new, and it was that tenuous thread of hope, now much thicker, much less fragile, although still far from completely solid.   
  
He ran his hands through America’s hair, much like he was doing to him, and he felt that one stubborn piece of hair that he noticed always stood up, and smiled a bit. Even when America’s hair was wet, that chunk was stalwart in its defiance of gravity.   
  
America moved his hands down to England’s shoulders, and England did the same, feeling the solid muscle of the other man’s back and shoulders beneath his grasp.   
  
His pants were feeling quite a bit snugger though, and England cursed inwardly because he knew he would have to let go, lest America see the way in which he was  _reacting_  to their contact. A sound of displeasure escaped his throat because of it, and at that, America leapt away.   
  
He’d never seen an expression on America’s face like this before. His eyes were huge and his mouth was agape and his cheeks were red to the point of scarlet. He looked like a child who had just gotten caught doing something terrible, breaking a cookie jar or accidentally destroying his Mum’s favorite rose bush. Not terribly romantic, but… rather adorable.   
  
If America was that flushed, then England assumed that he was probably blushing to his bloody ears.   
  
“S-s-sorry…” America finally managed, voice nary above a whisper.  
  
England merely nodded. “It’s--- it’s fine,” he rushed out the next part, “But I’ve got to go!”  
  
And he leapt up onto the dock, before America could reply. His arousal was begging for release, and he rather hated his very own hormones at that moment, because he’d left America in the water, and left them both with all questions unanswered. It was one thing for them to have snogged; it was another for America to realize he was _that_  into it. America would surely be disturbed, turned off by it. Even if by chance, the kiss  _did_  mean something and America  _did_  like him back, he certainly wouldn’t be ready to confront this. America, idealistic and quite possibly innocent, America, would surely be horrified. And even though he was well aware that there was nothing unusual about his reaction to someone pressed tight against him, wet and kissing him and--- he wasn’t about to allow his blasted cock to ruin any chance he might have with the other man.   
  
He was halfway to the shore when he nearly ran smack dab into Prussia, who barked out a laugh immediately. “Whoa, party in your pants, England?” England attempted to deck him, but Prussia dodged. “Hey, hey now! What did you and America do that--- “  
  
“Shut.up,” England gritted out, his tone convincingly threatening.  
  
Prussia held up his hands in surrender and let England run past him. “Fine!” he yelled as the captain reached the beach. “I’ll just ask America then!”   
  
England could only glare at him balefully, before continuing on his way.


	18. Goodbyes

_What just ha—I kissed him?_  
  
America lowered his face half-way into the water, in a vain hope that his burning cheeks would be abated by the cool sea that lapped against them. It wasn’t of any use. His blood seemed stalwart in its refusal to stop coloring his face, and he swore that it was even causing him to feel a bit lightheaded.  
  
He’d kissed England. Why had he kissed him? One minute he’d been proclaiming his heroic mission, then he’d hugged him because hey, why not? He embraced his friends and---  
  
Oh who the hell was he kidding? He  _liked_  hugging England.   
  
America lifted his head from the water to take a breath, and then submerged again.  
  
Liked the feel of England in his arms, the way he enveloped him so easily, surrounding him and…  
  
It was cute the way England was flushed deep when they pulled away; the crimson stain spreading across his face and he swore, all the way to his ears. His eyes had been wide, their brilliant green only accentuated by the red of his cheeks.   
  
After he’d leapt away, he knew he’d looked at England as if he, America, had done something terribly wrong.   
  
He hoped he hadn’t given England the wrong idea by reacting in such a manner.  
  
…Whatever the hell the  _right_  idea was anyway.   
  
He’d kissed England. England had kissed him back, very much so, what with the tongue and the---  
  
America submerged himself completely now, splashing with his arms as he descended underwater, crossed his arms, bent his knees, and stood there, beneath the waves. He closed his eyes and blew bubbles, enjoying the feel of the light current and the way in which his hair tickled his face.   
  
The kissing had been nice. Shit. Damn, it had been  _nice_  and it had felt so good and… what the hell was going on anyway and America felt as if his head may explode at any moment.  
  
Although England had stormed off, but that couldn’t have been because of America’s kissing skills, because surely they were amazing and awesome, plus he had just agreed to let America be his hero so he must like him at least as a friend and the kissing would indicate that England---  
  
 _All right, let’s clear this up._  He shook his head, the rush of the ocean whipping by as he did so.  _I kissed England. He kissed me. I liked it._  He pushed his knees up and rose out of the water, taking a deep breath and sifting a hand through his soaking hair as he stared at the endless blue sea beyond him.  _…Weird._  
  
America was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of someone clearing their throat. He whipped around, his eyes meeting Prussia’s. He was leering at him from a crouching position on the end of the dock.   
  
“What do you want?” America asked, hoping and praying that the flush on his face had dissipated.   
  
Prussia’s hands were resting on his knees, and he broke out a bark of a laugh. “I just have gotta know what exactly happened to cause England to run off all excited like that.”   
  
America knew that his cheeks were red now, and he gaped, rather like a fish. “I’ve got no idea what the hell you’re---“  
  
Prussia rolled his eyes. “Really, man. I’m happy that you two apparently… umm… whatever you did.” He paused. “I was hoping my awesome talk earlier would help you along, so make sure you give credit to the awesome me!”  
  
“Nothing like that happened!” America waved his hands wildly in front of them.  
  
Prussia sat down entirely, dangling his bare feet over the edge of the dock. “Ha. Get your mind out of the gutter, boy toy. You could just  _touch_  England while looking like you do right now, and he’d probably have to run off and… service himself.” America stared at Prussia, straight on, a defiant frown crossing his lips. “So it’s not like I’m saying you ripped each other’s clothes off or--- “  
  
“Fuck off!” America shouted, thrusting his arms forward and splashing Prussia vehemently. “What happened between me and England is… it’s none of your business!”  
  
At this, Prussia smirked. “Firstly, I’m already wet, man. Splashing me is sort of lame.” He pointed a finger. “Secondly, haven’t we gone over this? As great as it is to make fun of you two, I really do want it to work out? So whether you groped each other’s butt cheeks or kissed--- “  
  
At this, America’s face flooded with color again, and he cursed inwardly, biting his lip in attempt to stop himself from saying something that might give him away.   
  
Prussia laughed, loud and booming and annoying and America just wanted him to stop because he swore he was only becoming redder by the moment. “You kissed?” America opened his mouth to deny it, but Prussia continued first. He whooped, laughed again, and raised his arms above his head, then stood up and brushed his legs off. “That is  _awesome._ ” He turned and began to walk away, leaving America without a chance to reply.   
  
America’s fingers moved to his lips, as if musing on what exactly had occurred in that region of his body. Upon realizing his action however, he pulled them away like he was touching a hot coal and smacked his forehead in frustration.  _Watch Prussia tell everyone on this damn island._  He dunked his head underwater again and swam outward in attempt to cool his nerves.   


* * *

  
  
America padded onto the flight pad, bare feet hot on the concrete and boots and other clothing in his arms. He shook his head to free the remaining loose moisture from his hair as he approached his plane.   
  
He had swum until he’d grown exhausted of it, his fingers and toes long since pruned by the time he stepped out of the water. The cool blue sea had welcomed him, his strong arms and legs carrying him out to the reef where he surveyed, as best as he could without goggles, the tropical fish and the corals and the color and the sun kissed sky above the sea.   
  
But staring at the sky, instead of reminding him of being in his plane and soaring through the clouds, as it usually did, had made his mind wander back to England.   
  
He was trying very hard not to think about England.   
  
Although if the fucking sky reminded him of him, he was screwed.   
  
There was nothing he loved more than the sky, after all.  _Dammit._    
  
All right! He was going to change out of his wet clothes, and the duffle bag was now in his plane. After that, considering how his head was swimming and he was still trying to make sense of---  _that_ , he thought maybe he’d ask Australia if he could have a beer.   
  
If he had enough to supply Prussia’s habit, he could definitely spare America one. He hopped into his plane, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling of wet boxer shorts squelching on the leather of the chair, and reached behind to grab his duffle bag, throwing his dirty items back there as he did so.   
  
He paused once he’d nabbed it and turned back around to stare at his radio. One good thing had come of England shooting it, outside of giving him an excuse for his absence, of course. Once Canada had repaired it, it actually worked a little better than before, less static and crackling inhibiting his conversations.   
  
America took a deep breath and ran his fingers across the dials of the radio. He had told France and Canada where he was going, but the exact destination was something they’d no idea of. Nor had they been notified of when he’d be back. America himself had no idea, after all.   
  
He should radio them, America thought. After last time where Canada had been worried sick and he’d actually felt… really shitty about causing his crew to freak out, he didn’t want something like that to occur again. A hero didn’t allow his friends to fret for no reason!  
  
America tuned in the frequency of his hangar, reminding himself to keep it short as per England’s warnings about keeping their location private.   
  
“Captain Jones, this is Captain Jones speaking,” he began, once the crackle of the radio had cleared. A few moment’s silence, and a clear voice replied.   
  
“Captain. Good afternoon, Captain.” Japan.   
  
“Hey there Japan!” he replied casually. “What’s been up?”  
  
“I’m doing very well. May I ask what’s been up with you? I heard you were going out on something related to the Kosmider.” Oh that was right, Japan was the only one who didn’t know about England.   
  
America winced. He felt a little bad that Japan was still in the dark, especially when France of all people knew. “Um, it’s going awesome!” he lied. “I have a ton of information. The colonel is definitely going to be pleased with me!”   
  
He patted the list in his pocket, and a realization dawned on him. He  _couldn’t_  give this list to the colonel or anyone else, save perhaps the rest of his unit. He had made a promise to England regarding the names on that list, and he had… no desire to break it.  
  
The idea of disappointing England like that left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.   
  
But the zeppelin specifications, and the other information, he could provide the military that! And they’d definitely think him an awesome captain, and an awesome hero, for doing so.   
  
“That’s wonderful, Captain!” Japan exclaimed, his voice still quiet. “Then I take it you’re ready to return to the base?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Japan laughed lightly. “I was hoping you’d radio, because we attempted to get a hold of you to no avail before now.”  
  
“Well… I wasn’t in my plane.”  
  
“I assumed as much, and Mr. Williams and Private Bonnefoy agreed.”   
  
“Ah yeah. Cool then. Glad I didn’t worry you, although you shouldn’t worry about a pilot like me anyway!”   
  
“Colonel’s orders, you need to return to the base. Our unit has been chosen to take charge of Kosmider related activities for this base.”   
  
“Really?” America grinned, beamed. “Th-that’s awesome! I mean we’re finally going to get to do something, and we’ve been put at the head of something so important. Ha, those bastards are going down!”   
  
“Well, we’ll still be taking orders from above.”  
  
“Yeah, I mean of course but. Seriously, this is the coolest thing!” America was leaning back in his chair now, grin having only widened as he stared upward. This was surreal; in the best way possible.   
  
“I thought you would be excited, Captain Jones.”   
  
“Ameerrricaaaa,” he said, drawing it out.  
  
“America,” he corrected, reluctantly. “I know you’ll be good for the job. You’re very passionate about this.”   
  
He laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head. “Ah yeah, you’ve noticed. It’s just… man it’s terrible, and it can’t keep happening and… ah shit, actually I’ve got to keep this short. I need to come back?” he trailed off the last sentence, frowning when his chest tightened slightly at the idea of leaving the tropical island behind, of leaving England.  
  
“By tomorrow morning. We have a meeting with General Wang at eleven a.m. You’ll be able to return in plenty of time, I hope?”   
  
“Y-yeah, it won’t be a problem, Japan,” America replied, biting his lip. He was thrilled with the assignment. It was a dream come true, really. But… this island, the Victoria crew, England. He sighed, and forced a cheerful tone. “Thanks for telling me. You’re the most awesome friend ever, Japan.”  
  
“Thank you Cap-America, you know how deeply I value your friendship as well.”  
  
“See ya!”   
  
“Clear skies, America.”   
  
He clicked off the radio and rubbed his forehead. He simultaneously wanted to jump up and down and radio Japan back asking if they could move the meeting to the next day. But he had a job to do, and there was nothing more important than fighting the Kosmider. And now he had a real chance to make a difference, because he wasn’t going to allow the military to ignore the problem if he was in charge. America grabbed his duffle bag and leapt out of the cockpit, heading toward the hut Australia had by the beach in order to change.   


* * *

  
  
America spotted England sitting on the beach, close enough to the surf that the water was tickling his toes, when he exited the hut. His soaked shirt and pants appeared somewhat dry by now, the afternoon sun having worked quickly on them, and he was leaning back on his arms, as if staring skyward. His expression was neutral, and his vivid green eyes were wide as they surveyed the blue above.   
  
He approached England, quietly, and paused hovering over him before tapping him on the shoulder. “Hey…”  
  
England merely nodded. “’Ello, America.”  
  
America shifted awkwardly on his feet, and then sat down next to him, pulling his legs up crossed beneath him so they wouldn’t get wet. “So umm…”  
  
“I can’t wait to get back to the sky,” England began. “Bloody hell, the beach is beautiful, but I miss flying in my Victoria like nothing else.”   
  
He smiled. “Yeah, this place is pretty awesome, but I know what you mean,” America paused. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on England’s knee.  
  
England’s eyes grew large and his cheeks flushed red. “A-America I…”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“S-s-should we talk?” England managed, his voice quiet.   
  
America pulled his hand off England and darted his eyes away, willing the blush not to rise on his own cheeks. It didn’t work. “Don’t take this some weird way but… I have to leave, England.”  
  
England sighed and moved his arms into his lap. “Oh. I see.”   
  
“I got put in charge of the Kosmider activities at my base!” America exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s great, England! I can finally do something without… sneaking around and stuff. We’ll definitely be able to handle them with military action, I’m sure.”  
  
England chuckled sardonically. “I suppose you won’t be needing any more help from pirates then, will you?”  
  
America blinked. “Wha?”   
  
“Never mind, if you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”  
  
America bit his lip. “If it weren’t so important to leave, I… wouldn’t mind staying here for a while.” His cheeks were still pink, he knew it.   
  
“Y-you--- wouldn’t?” England glanced at him, something in his eyes, something like what America had seen when they’d pulled apart from their embrace, right before they’d---   
  
“Nah, I mean it’s a lot of fun here!”   
  
England shook his head. “I’m... pleased you think so. Don’t get me wrong, it’s hardly meant to be a tropical getaway, so I don’t care if you had fun or no---“  
  
“England.” America took a deep breath. “I uh- yeah we should probably talk, huh?” England nodded. “Well you’re probably leaving here soon, and I don’t know when I can get away from the base…”  
  
“I suppose we could meet at Világfa,” England mused, almost under his breath.  
  
“Is that some kind of secret pirate getaway?” His lips quirked up. “A hellhole of crime?”  
  
“Oh shut up. It’s the Inn and Pub I told you about before. You should have the name memorized, since I told you to throw the paper away.”  
  
America laughed nervously. “I kinda forgot to throw it away.”   
  
“Idiot.”   
  
“I didn’t tell anyone!” he defended.  
  
“All right, I believe you.”  
  
“So the Világfa Inn and Pub, and I’ll be meeting up with the Unicorn, right?” America inquired, amusement in his tone.  
  
England huffed and crossed his arms. “Yes, all right? Just radio me when you think you can clear your schedule.”  
  
America stood up and clapped a hand on England’s shoulder. “It’s a date, then!”   
  
At this, England’s face exploded red, and he nodded rather firmly. “V-Very well then.”   
  
“Awesome.” He sighed, “I’ve really gotta go though, so you wanna come see me off?”   
  
England shook his head in the positive and pushed himself up, brushing the sand off his rear as he did so. “Are you going to need something to eat for the trip home?”  
  
“Ah, I actually caught Australia on the way from the plane to that hut I changed clothes in, and he’s packing me up something.” America shrugged. “I was kind of aching for a beer, but that was before I knew I was going to be flying back…”  
  
“Are you decent on fuel?”   
  
“Australia is taking care of that as well.”   
  
They were walking now, along the beach and toward the platform America’s plane rested on. Glancing back, America spotted the rest of the crew. Spain and Romano were still lounging in the shallow surf, Sealand and Liechtenstein were playing some strange form of hopscotch they’d drawn in the sand, and Prussia and Switzerland were talking amongst themselves, both sitting in their own wicker chairs. He smiled fondly, unbidden.   
  
“Hey!” he called back, shouting. “I’m uh, leaving, so bye everyone!”   
  
Spain and Romano waved from their places on the beach, Romano with a frown. Sealand and Liechtenstein ran over so they were walking alongside America and England, and Prussia pushed himself out of the chair to join them, Switzerland following behind.   
  
It was Switzerland that approached America first once they reached the platform. He roughly pulled him aside, out of England’s earshot, and glared at him.  
  
“Um…” America blinked.  
  
“Prussia told me what happened between you two,” he began shortly. America’s cheeks flooded with color. “It’s not up to me to judge the captain’s choices, but I will say…” Switzerland grabbed America’s collar, his green eyes hard. “That if you hurt him, in any way. I will shoot you, and I won’t miss.”   
  
America gulped, because he’d seen Switzerland with his arsenal of weapons, and damn he would not want to be on his bad side. “Why would I hurt England?” was his simple reply.  
  
Switzerland just nodded and let go of his collar. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He turned away. “See you then.”  
  
America shuddered inwardly. “What the hell…”   
  
“Ah, that’s just Switzerland,” Prussia interrupted, smacking America on the back. He started. “But he  _will_  totally kick your ass if you screw with England.”   
  
“I don’t plan---“  
  
“By screwing with, I don’t mean screwing of course.” He smirked deviously. “You’re welcome to do that. Haha.”   
  
“Shut up!” America snapped, blushing.   
  
“Yeah, well…” Prussia smiled, softer, without that edge of mischief. “See you later man.” America nodded, and Prussia patted his back one more time before walking away. He stepped toward his plane and met Australia along the way.  
  
“Done filling you up, and here’s some food to go, mate,” Australia said, grinning at him with his grease-stained face.   
  
America took a brown bag from the other man’s hand, and nodded in gratitude. “Thanks.” He turned back around, where the Victoria crew, including Spain and Romano, who had left their surfside spot after all, stood facing him. England was in the forefront, with a sort of… cautious smile.   
  
“You’re off now?” he asked.  
  
“Y-yeah, sorry I can’t stay longer,” America answered, a flicker of a frown on his lips.   
  
England tilted his chin up. “Quite all right. I know you’re needed back at your base. It doesn’t bode well when I do believe that you may be one of the most competent soldiers there.”   
  
“Hey!” But England’s insult felt weak, more teasing than anything. “Well you’d better get up in the air again, so you can steal some more tea kettles for your stove or something.”   
  
America turned around and began to step into his plane, but England’s hand on his back stopped him. He swerved to look at the other man. England was glancing to and fro, as if making sure his crew was not able to eavesdrop on this. They were standing only a few meters away, so it was no surprise that England practically whispered when he began to speak. “Just because you’re going to be all… bigshot in the military now, don’t think I won’t still be fighting as well.”   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I mean to say that, I hope we can still work together on this, America,” he clarified.  
  
“Hey. I mean we set up that meeting, we can still exchange information and work together and…” America rushed out the next part, “hang out and stuff.”   
  
England closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s not just the Kosmider that I want to work together with you on.” And America couldn’t miss how embarrassed he looked saying those words. “I would like to… I would…” He exhaled deeply. “Oh never mind.”  
  
“You’d what?” America scratched the back of his head.  
  
“It’s nothing,” England replied. “Just as long as I know I’ll see you again.”  
  
“’Course you will!” he replied confidently. “Now I’ve really got to go.”  
  
“Yes… I know.” America hopped halfway into the cockpit, one side still dangling out, when England reached forward to shake his hand.   
  
America grinned at this and knocked his hand aside, instead deciding to wrap the other man in a one-armed hug. England leaned into his shoulder and America could see his contented smile out his peripheral vision. He tousled England's hair and whispered into his ear, “See you later, England.”  
  
England’s hands rubbed up and down America’s back as he replied, “Then I suppose I’ll look forward to it."


	19. Palace of Snow and Ice

It was white, so white that when Ukraine had first seen it, she’d remembered thinking that it felt as if she were inside an immense palace of snow. The ceilings were high and domed, and the floor was as gleaming as ice. But it was not royalty that this pure-white palace housed, but instead, the growing fleet of the Kosmider.   
  
It was here, in this remote snow bound citadel shrouded in the Northern-most regions of Medved, that the Kosmider built themselves up; zeppelin upon zeppelin, nearly invisible in the wind-whipped, frigid, white landscape.   
  
There were few splashes of color in the fortress, a flash of silver; Belarus practicing with her blade in an open space. But mostly it was black, the deep dark of the Kosmider uniforms dotting the room like smudges of charcoal on an ivory surface.  
  
Ukraine wrapped her arms around herself, chilly despite the warm wool of her uniform. This was her charge, to watch and regulate the building of the Kosmider’s zeppelins. Russia had given it to her, and what choice did she have but to---   
  
“Sister?” a voice snapped her out of her reverie, soft, gentle, Russia’s. And he was alone, because he never referred to her by sister unless they were out of earshot of other Kosmider members.  
  
Ukraine turned around, greeting her younger brother. His beige scarf stood out against his black uniform, and he smiled. “Good afternoon, Brother.”   
  
“I’m glad I stopped by, ah?” He paused and Ukraine felt him surveying her. She bit her lip and fought back a small wave of tears. She’d always struggled with holding in her emotions, and lately seeing her brother, seeing him made it so difficult not to cry. He wasn’t supposed to be like—“The construction of our fleet is going as well as you’d promised, Sister. I am so pleased with your work.”  
  
“Thank you, Brother.” She nodded. Russia’s large hand landed on her shoulder, and she recalled a smaller pair of hands, covered in warm mittens and wrapped gently around her shoulders. An embrace. An adjusting of a scarf when they’d pulled apart. A smile as she’d told him ‘you’re almost as tall as me now, little brother.’   
  
“Do you see, everyone is working so hard for us, dear Sister.” He pointed a finger toward the fleet of black clad workers, zeppelins coming together piece by piece under their care. “So many people have joined us in sharing our dream. It won’t be long until it’s accomplished, ah?”   
  
Ukraine’s eyes welled up again, and she stifled a sniffle. “Brother… what if, everyone doesn’t share the same dream you do?” she queried, voice quiet, cautious.   
  
At this, Russia’s hand left her shoulder, and a frown flickered across his face; just a blink of a change in expression before his smile was back in place. “It was ultimately everyone here’s decision to join me, Sister," hiis voice lowered in pitch near the end of the sentence, and there was a tinge of ire to his tone.   
  
“That is…”  
  
“No one will stand in my way,  _Ukraine_.” And despite his almost gentle tone, his words were frosty, and they sent a chill through Ukraine.   
  
She frowned and nodded, turning away from him so as to disallow him from seeing the large salty tears that now fell freely from her eyes. Ukraine would stand beside him and protect him. She’d vowed to do so when he was small, when the chill of the Medvedian winter was the greatest danger they’d faced. But it was getting harder to do so now, because Ukraine had no idea how to protect Russia from what he was facing now. Her heart ached every time she realized that she was at a loss as to how to protect him from himself.   
  
A pounding of footsteps, and she peeked over her shoulder to see Lithuania approaching. Lithuania, Russia’s favorite soldier, his trusted general, greeted the other man with a salute and a “you asked to see me, Sir?” Russia nodded.  
  
“Indeed, Lithuania. I have some very important matters to discuss, if you’ll follow me.” He didn’t say goodbye to Ukraine, merely giving her a wayward backward glance as he walked away, Lithuania trailing behind.   
  


* * *

  
  
America wanted more than anything to sleep. He wanted to curl up in his bedsheets and nuzzle into his pillow and drift off into a dreamless sleep and be well rested and awake for the meeting with China the next day. This was his big break, after all.   
  
So when upon pulling the sheets and comforter over him and plopping his head down onto the pillow, he heard a rather loud knock on the door of his room, he cursed.   
  
“America, let me in?” came France’s muffled voice. Oh most definitely not. He was not going to come back from a lengthy flight, sleep deprived, just to have to talk to  _France_. Especially since he had no doubt that France was going to bring up--- “Oh, you do not wish to let me in? I guess I can talk to you about England from outside the door then.”  
  
Before he even finished his sentence, America had darted up from the bed and over to the door, swinging it open and frowning. “What do you want, France?” France held up his hands in mock surrender. The hallway was empty behind him, America noted as he peeked around him. “Just… come in, okay?” America shook his head and yawned, running a hand through his blonde hair.   
  
France stepped into the room and took a quick gander at America’s bed, the sheets ruffled from his quick dart to the door. “Haha, not funny. Sit in the chair.” America gestured to the small wooden chair that sat beside his desk.   
  
“Very well then,” France sighed as he sat down. “I imagine that I will just have to come to terms with you no longer being available.”   
  
America’s face flushed at this, and he plopped down onto the edge of his bed in a sulk. “I was never available to you anyway.”   
  
France shrugged. “You’ve always played hard to get. If you and England ever…”  
  
“Shut up." He leapt from the bed and grabbed a pile of comic books from atop his nightstand, lining them up in the middle of the floor. When that wasn’t enough, he snatched his extra pair of goggles, a few flight manuals, a dirty pair of pants, and four records. The ‘line’ was splayed out in the middle of the room, stretching vertically from the area between his nightstand and his desk and the end of his bed. “Don’t cross this line, France. Now what did you come here for?”   
  
France chuckled. “I only wanted to speak to you, America.”   
  
America shifted, feeling irritable and tired. He picked his glasses up from the nightstand and put them back on, then sat down on the bed again. “Go for it then. I’ve got to get to bed so I can wake up and be ready tomorrow.”   
  
“About that…” France tapped his fingers on the desk. “Congratulations. I know how much you wanted to help out with this, America.”   
  
America's eyes widened, and a small smile crossed his lips. “Thanks.”   
  
“I only hope….” he trailed off.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Ah,” France began again, “I meant to say I only hope that you do not become content with this.”  
  
“Whaddya mean by that?” America queried. “This is gonna be great. With me at the head, I won’t let the Kosmider get any further!”   
  
France exhaled. “I just worry that you will… go back to how you were before now.”  
  
“How I was… before?”  
  
“Before England,” France clarified. “When you questioned the military that day… wondered why they were not taking action with the Kosmider…”   
  
“Well now they are.”  
  
“That, yes exactly that.” France leaned back in his chair. “I just mean that I hope you do not go back to blindly following the military.”   
  
“Wha— “  
  
“And by the way, if you need any tips on long distance relationships, I would be more than happy to---“  
  
“Did you come here for any other reason but to criticize me?” America bit out, frustration rising. “Here I thought you might actually be happy for me about my assignment…”  
  
“I am, America.” France leaned forward on his hands and leveled him a look. “I wish to believe though, that you will not be appeased by this. Now that you have your way, now that they are acting as you desired, will you bend again to their every whim?”   
  
America sucked in a breath. “I’m a hero. I do what’s right, and it’s obvious the military knows what’s right now!”   
  
France frowned and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “But what of England? You care about him, oui?”  
  
America bloomed red at this, and he clenched a fist. “France,” his tone had a hint of warning to it.  
  
“I am not speaking of anything but the simple fact that you must care about him,” he clarified.  
  
America relaxed and nodded. “Yeah, I… do,” he replied softly.   
  
“You would defy the military for him, still,” France said, as if it were a fact. “You feel so strongly, America. You always have. Such passion…”  
  
He crossed his arms. “Passion? France, stop with the--- “  
  
“I do not mean that in any way but innocent,” he interrupted. “Non, I am being serious here. I just mean to say that if you feel half as strongly for England, for your hope of taking down the Kosmider as I believe you probably do… is there even a question?”  
  
“I—“ America looked down, surveying his floor as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.  
  
“This is not to say that I think the military will definitely steer you wrong,” France continued. “But if you are in a situation, where your superiors tell you to turn right, and you know, that the best thing to do is to turn left, please do it.” He stood up and walked across the room, ignoring America’s line of belongings. “There is nothing more dangerous than complacency, America.”   
  
The expression on France’s face was completely serious. His eyes were intense and his lips formed a hard line. America shook his head in the positive. “I’m not gonna promise you anything, France. What I do is up to me!”   
  
France smiled lightly. “That will do for now.” He sat down on the bed beside America, who grumbled and gave him a light shove. “Shall I give you some advice regarding England now that we have this sorted?”  
  
“No. You can leave now.” America crossed his arms in irritation.   
  
France tutted and stood up, walking toward the door and turning around before he left. “All right, America. I will leave for tonight. I understand the importance of your meeting tomorrow. But if you ever need advice, you know there’s no one better than me. Although… I still question your taste. England, really?”   
  
He found himself with a face full of downy softness, America having soundly thrown a very feathery pillow at him. France tossed the pillow and left the room, peeking back in before closing the door.  
  
“Good night, Captain.”   
  


* * *

  
  
“America Jones, captain of the thirty-fifth unit of the World Aviation Force, Aquila division,” Russia stated, placing a black and white photograph on the table between himself and Lithuania. “Do you recognize him, Lithuania?”  
  
Lithuania blinked, surveying the photograph in front of him. The young flyboy was proudly saluting, a broad smile on his face. “No Sir, I don’t.”   
  
“He looks spirited, doesn’t he?” Russia queried, leveling a smile at his general.   
  
“I… guess he does,” he replied. In truth, even from the photograph, Lithuania thought the aviator radiated life. The sun shone down upon and illuminated both him and the plane he stood in front of, and Lithuania felt a tinge of envy for the young man, this America, whoever he was. He looked… free.   
  
“You may not recognize him, but I do believe you’ve met.” Russia ran a finger over the photo, swiveling it around on the table. “Surely you remember the pilot who fought alongside the Taliesin, yes?”   
  
Lithuania’s green eyes widened as he recalled that battle, and the military craft that had shown up out of nowhere, taking down one of the Kosmider zeppelins. “I… remember him.”  
  
“Remember what I told you about the danger the sky-pirates present to our plans?”   
  
“Yes…”  
  
“This boy could be just as dangerous, I think,” Russia continued. “He is a link between the pirates and the military, and it’s even more than that. He’s strong, idealistic, and he’s just been given a position of power that I really do not approve of. It is he who will be in charge of acting against us, it appears.”   
  
“Sir?” Lithuania inhaled sharply. “Wh-what are you proposing?”   
  
“I’ve learned a lot about America Jones recently, and I want him… out of the way.”   
  
Lithuania gulped and nodded, beads of sweat forming on the palms of his hands. “A-and…”   
  
“Are you asking what your role in this will be?” Russia inquired, soft, sweet, as if his words were innocent as a lamb. “That is yet to be determined, but this America, this young captain with his smile and his dreams and his spirit.” He picked up the photo and turned it in his hand, before crumpling it into a ball. “His dreams are not ours. We will devastate them.”  
  
Lithuania clenched his eyes shut, his heart beating wildly in his chest. That man, that brave flyboy who had defended the pirate ship so boldly. He remembered watching the aircraft from his spot in the zeppelin, watching as it zipped through the sky, cutting through the wind as if it were nothing, dodging the missiles his crew had deployed, and so easily, with swift and tactical strikes, knocking one of Russia’s white beasts out of the sky. Lithuania was sure that America and Russia did not share the same dreams, but he wondered if  _he_  and America may.   
  
“Belarus, you may come in.” Lithuania snapped his eyes open at Russia’s words. The door creaked open, bringing with it the sound of the zeppelin production, voices yelling, machinery running, steam puffing, in addition to Belarus’s feet clattering on the floor as she rushed in.   
  
“How did you know I was there, Russia, dear?” Belarus asked, and Lithuania noted that her sword was hilted at her side, having just been practicing with her blade.   
  
Russia let out a whisper of a laugh. “I heard you of course. You were quiet, but not too quiet for me.”   
  
Belarus tensed at this. “Sit down, Belarus.” She moved to sit next to Russia, and he shook his head. “By Lithuania, please.” She pouted and plopped down next to him, the end of her blade’s sheath jutting into his leg. Lithuania shifted away.   
  
Belarus really was beautiful, and her skill was admirable and… honestly breathtaking. At times Lithuania found himself watching her practice, numbing his mind to what darkness Belarus was truly capable of, so he could just be in awe of the way in which she moved. Her hair always whipped about her face, but she never pulled it back, a headband being the only thing that kept it from flying too astray. She wore a dress instead of the standard Kosmider uniform, although it was still black and silver. This was, Belarus claimed, so she could hide her daggers beneath her skirts. She was lethal, and Lithuania found himself both frightened and amazed by her.   
  
In that manner, Lithuania also considered her to be a perfect match for Russia, and he bemoaned the fact that Russia did not agree. Russia would rather have him; Russia would  _always_  rather have Lithuania.   
  
“I assume you heard my discussion with Lithuania, yes?” Russia asked.   
  
“I did not mean to--- “  
  
“It’s all right. There’s nothing I told him that you can’t know, Belarus,” he interrupted. “I trust your loyalty.”  
  
“I promise you will find none more loyal,” Belarus answered, her expression genuine. “Please Russia, dear. May I have a mission? I could be the one to take out Captain Jones for you.”   
  
Russia shook his head. “It is not my mission to see him dead, Belarus.”   
  
She gritted her teeth. “Then I guess Lithuania  _is_  the one for this. He couldn’t hurt a fly, dear! Can’t you see? He does not share the dream we do, the one you speak of. He is--- “  
  
“So rude, Belarus, and while Lithuania is sitting right next to you. If you care so deeply for me, why do you continually question me?” Russia asked, leveling her a glare.   
  
“I—I--- “  
  
His smile returned, and there was a lilt to his voice. “Please go back to practice, Belarus. There will be work for us all soon, you included.”  
  
Belarus stood up and nodded, firm, staunch. She sauntered over to Russia and placed a kiss atop his head before leaving the room.  
  


* * *

  
  
England was in America’s room. Well not  _his_  room, but the cabin he’d taken to staying in the nights he’d slept aboard the Victoria. America hadn’t made the bed (bloody terrible guest, that moron!), and so England was curled up in the same arrangement of twisted sheets and wrinkled comforter that America had left behind that morning.   
  
He was lying in America’s bed, and he berated himself for it. Honestly, if any of his crew were to walk in on this, he would never live it down. As such he’d waited until they were fast asleep (and luckily for him, Prussia had passed out inebriated on the beach again) to pad down to the cabin America had stayed in.   
  
The pillow still bore the indention from America’s head, and for Christ’s sake he felt like such a fucking idiot for wrapping the sheets around him and taking in the smell that was America and he just--- hated how much he missed him already. Not so much missed that he wasn’t there, but missed him because he had no idea the next time he would see him.   
  
America had sent him a quick radio when he’d arrived at the base, letting him know he’d gotten back safely and then telling him “g’night, I gotta sleep, seriously.” England had appreciated that. No flight was ever without its hazards, but especially not now, with the Kosmider.   
  
He ghosted his fingers across his lips and shook his head. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now, not when America had free time (although as much as he was loathe to admit it, he could hardly ask him to ditch his stupid job to talk about what had occurred). The scene in the water replayed in his mind continually, the way in which America had held him and kissed him and--- he was certain that no one had kissed first, that they’d honestly done it at the same time. Consensually. Then there was the fact that apparently, shaking hands had not been enough for America when he’d left. Instead, America had embraced him, ruffled his hair, and whispered in his ear. And that… was…  
  
England’s eyes slid shut, and he felt himself drifting off, the warmth of the bed and the lingering presence of that imbecile who had somehow garnered his affections, lulling him to sleep. He shook his head and darted up, leaving the room behind with one wayward glance.   
  
He could hardly stay in there. No amount of hours on the mast or extra chores for anyone on his crew would save him from the humiliation of being found in that cabin in the morning. 


	20. Ready and Prepared

America took a deep breath and exhaled as he stood in front of the mirror in his dorm. He straightened his tie (again), and finger combed his hair (once more), before making sure his captain’s badge was perfectly straight (for the last time).   
  
He glanced back at his bed, where his bomber jacket lay discarded. Japan had advised against him wearing it, and after much coercion, he’d agreed.   
  
The recently minted captain adjusted the buttons on his cuffs, pressed his hands down his vest, and shot himself a cock-sure grin in the mirror. He ignored the edge of nervousness at the corner of his smile.   
  
America wanted to look the part for this meeting. Professional, prepared, heroic,  _awesome._    
  
Closing his eyes and rubbing the fob watch at his belt, he cleared his mind of wayward thoughts, of everything unrelated to the situation at hand. He thought of his mission and his new position, he thought of the Kosmider and the fervor in which he wished to stop them, he thought of his dreams and how he was closer than ever to being the hero he’d set out to be.   
  
He thought of England.   
  
England, who he wanted to fight to protect, England, who in his own strange sort of backwards way, had helped him realize why he was doing this whole military thing in the first place, England, who he—okay, he really cared about, and England who believed in him, who had trusted him with so much. He had to do this for not just himself, but for England.   
  
His eyes flashed, brilliant blue, and he smiled into the mirror again, warm, confident, that tinge of anxiety vanished.   
  
America was so damn ready for this. China would be beyond impressed. One look at him and no one would ever doubt he was the best person for this job; someone who could truly stand against the Kosmider.  
  


* * *

  
  
Said one who could truly stand against the Kosmider squirmed and adjusted his collar as he was led to the briefing room, France and Japan bringing up the rear behind him. He breathed out when the door was pushed open for him. China gave him a nod from where he stood at the front of the room.  
  
“Captain Jones?”   
  
America stiffened and saluted. “Captain Jones, reporting for duty, General Wang.”   
  
China smiled softly at him and gestured for him to sit. America did so, beside China at the briefing room’s round table. His subordinates sat down as well, Japan scooting his chair close to the table and nodding politely at the general.   
  
“My unit, Sergeant Honda and Private Bonnefoy.” America gestured to his two men.   
  
“Pleased to meet you.” China smiled. “No need to be nervous.”   
  
America’s eyes widened, noticing how he was fidgeting with his fingers under the table. He cursed inwardly and stopped. “Ah, I’m not nervous. I’m ready for this, General!”  
  
China sighed, his expression remaining upbeat. “Well, I hope you are the best man for the job, just as I’ve been told.”  
  
America grinned at this, beamed rather, and leaned forward in his chair excitedly. “I am! You won’t be disappointed in me, General.”   
  
China reached into a pack beside his chair and pulled out a stack of papers. “This is information on much of the Kosmider’s activity, up to now, that we know of. Captain Jones, both you and your subordinates have full clearance to these documents.”  
  
“Really?” America took the stapled stack of papers when it was offered to him. “That’s great.” He ran his fingers over the smooth white paper, a reminder that this, his new assignment, was real. He was finally going to have this chance to---   
  
“I trust you know what happens if this information gets out?” China queried, leveling the three soldiers a look.  
  
“Yes, General,” America answered, and France and Japan replied in the positive as well.   
  
America took a moment to survey China; who had paused to pull on and adjust the high collar of his deep maroon uniform. He’d always admired the general, even back before he'd joined the military himself. China was just one of those guys that everyone in the military looked up to, even if they’d never met him. He was strong, powerful, and courageous, but he was supposedly a really awesome guy even outside of that, and all of his soldiers had only good things to say about him. He wasn’t a jackass and he didn’t abuse his power and just… America thought that he was a damn good example of what a real hero must be. And here he was having a meeting with him! Not like before when they’d stopped for a briefing on one of his ships, but a bonafide meeting at  _America’s_  base.   
  
“America,” China interrupted, and America bolted upright. He was being addressed by his first name.  _Holy---_  
  
“Y-yes General?”   
  
China blinked and stared straight at him, brown eyes meeting blue. “I have heard that you are very interested in this mission, your new assignment aside.”  
  
America’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Of course, General! I’ve heard all kinds of things about how many people have died or been attacked and, it’s our job as the military to stop that. We need to put an end to the Kosmider so no one else gets hurt.”   
  
China bit his lip momentarily, before smiling. “That’s what I thought. It’s… you really are as green as they say.”  
  
“What- but I--- “  
  
“I think it’s a good thing,” China interrupted. “When I saw your file, and asked around, I talked to Sergeant Honda and Private Bonnefoy, for example, I knew they’d picked the right boy.”   
  
America’s face broke into an enormous grin, with an edge of almost nervous awe to it. “I-I--- “ He felt like an idiot and a child, his throat drying up a bit as he attempted to reply back to China. But China had said he was the right guy, and that meant that he thought he was a hero, right?   
  
“You’ve got your priorities straight,” China broke into his thoughts. “Too many have been lost because the military wasted time.”  
  
America's head snapped up at this. “H-huh?”  
  
“You heard me.” China was flipping through paperwork and glancing at the text as he said this. “I’ve been doing what I can for awhile, but it’s long past time when the military should have started acting on a larger scale.”   
  
 _Even you…_  America shot a look to France, who merely shook his head, as if affirming China’s words.  _It’s not as if I didn’t think the same thing but…_  
  
Japan, he noted, looked solemn, seeming to agree to the truth of China’s statement as well.   
  
“Anyway,” China continued, “you’ll be going on an intel mission tomorrow.”   
  
“I’m ready!” America piped up, pressing his palms onto the table.   
  
China's eyes widened and he chuckled. “You don’t even know what you’re doing.”  
  
America berated himself in thought and frowned. “S-sorry, General. It’s just, I’m ready to do whatever you ask. A hero’s always prepared for duty, if you know what I mean.”   
  
China rolled a map across the table and pointed to a red-dotted area with his index finger. “The northernmost of the Dezenvòlt Islands houses a merchant hub called the Babako.”   
  
America nodded. He’d never been there, but he knew France had. France was even smirking slightly, he could see out of the corner of his eye. This was exactly the kind of well,  _seedy_  place that France frequented and often exposited to the rest of the unit upon returning.   
  
“I know what you’re thinking. Places like that generally aren’t well respected, but there’s no better place to get information than from the very people who sail the skies,” China explained.  
  
America smiled lightly, knowing full well how true this was. Every bit of valuable information he’d personally gleaned on the Kosmider, had come from such a source. “So we’re going on an intel mission there? Is it undercover?”   
  
“Yes. You’ll be landing your planes on the closest island. There is a small landing pad on the south beach.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “And my subordinate, Officer Im, will be there to assist you. He’ll take you on a small skyship over to the Babako.”  
  
“What are we intended to wear?” France queried, raising an eyebrow. “I hate to say, but I have been there before. People may recognize me…”  
  
China sighed. “Korea, that’s his name and you are to call each other by your first names on this mission, not your ranks, obviously, will have clothing for you to wear. Private Bonnefoy, is there anyone you know well that lives at the Babako?”   
  
France’s lips turned up in a smile, and America, knowing him all too well, caught the hint of something lecherous in it. “Why yes, there may very well be.”  
  
China rubbed his forehead, exasperation clear on his face. “You are to locate them and attempt to gather intel. If they’re not there, return to the skyship. Just… make sure not to be seen with Captain Jones, Sergeant Honda, and Officer Im. You don’t want to blow their cover.”  
  
France rested his chin on his hand. “Very well, General Wang.”   
  
“The rest of the details are contained in the paperwork I gave you earlier. Coordinates, questions you are to ask, and information on the Babako and how to handle yourselves there.”   
  
America made a noise, and China acknowledged him with a nod. “Not to doubt the importance of this mission, General, but when are we actually going to go after the Kosmider?”  
  
China’s expression turned morose. “When we actually  _can_. As of now, we have yet to locate any of their strongholds. We’re having a world of trouble figuring out where they’ll next attack even.”  
  
He deliberated a moment before speaking again. “Well I don’t know much, General, but I’ve kind of picked up that maybe they’re kind of… working on knocking off the pirates right now? I mean, it’s just a hunch!” America paused, placing his hands in front of him. “I keep hearing about their ships going down…”  
  
“You’d be right,” China said. “They are definitely methodically taking out pirate crews, but pirates aren’t easy to track either.”   
  
America exhaled. “Y-yeah, that’s true.”   
  
China’s frown deepened, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “We’ll be done here then.” He folded the map and placed it back in the bag at the side of his chair, then stood up and saluted. “You will be departing tomorrow morning at 0600 hours.”   
  
America slid out of his chair and saluted as well, Japan and France following his example. “Yes, General.”  
  
General Wang nodded and turned to leave the room, glancing back in once he’d exited. “And good luck, Captain Jones. Truly.”   
  


* * *

  
  
Romano ground his teeth as he glared at England, firm and strong in his words. “I don’t give two shits if you don’t want to me to radio my brother, I’m doing it.”  
  
England sighed. “I do want you to, don’t get me wrong. But can’t you wait until we’re back up in the air? I don’t want our position right now to be compromised.”   
  
The pair were standing in front of the door to England’s cabin, both staunch in their stance and not allowing the other beside them to gain entrance. Spain was watching, a resigned expression on his face.   
  
Romano crossed his arms and scoffed. “Heh, doesn’t stop you from radioing your boyfriend now, does it?”  
  
At this, England’s cheeks bloomed crimson and he scowled. “Now belt the bloody hell up! He is NOT my boyfriend, and I made sure to keep those radios short anyway.” He placed his hand on the front of the door. “Now if you don’t mind, this is my room, and let me remind you that I am also the captain of this ship and--- “  
  
“You’re not  _my_  captain,” Romano interrupted sharply.   
  
England exhaled deeply, in attempt to calm himself. “Look Romano, I understand that I’m not Captain Carriedo, but this is still my ship, regardless of whether---“  
  
“Let him call, England.”   
  
England snapped his gaze over to Spain, and his eyes widened. “Spain, you know how much I respect you but--- “  
  
“England, please,” Spain appealed, his green eyes imploring.   
  
“If he just waits, soon we’ll be up in the air and--- “  
  
Spain placed a hand on England’s shoulder, gentle but strong. “For Romano, all he has is me and Veneziano now. We are so grateful to you for letting us aboard your ship, my friend. But… can I ask you this one thing, still?”  
  
Romano was quiet, his characteristic explosive retorts muted by Spain’s concern. His cheeks were flushed high though, and he beseeched England with his expression as well.  
  
England closed his eyes and nodded. “You shouldn’t be able to track my radio, but it’s still a risk. You trust your brother with all our lives, Romano?”   
  
Romano’s scowl deepened. “What the fuck. He’s my brother, dammit. If you can trust your boyfriend that you met like, two weeks ago or whatever, I can trust my brother.”   
  
England's face reddened again as he opened the door to his bedroom, allowing Romano in. “He’s not my boy--- “ He shook his head and waved his hand. “Oh never you mind. Just, don’t make it  _too_  long, all right?”   
  
Romano slid in the room and closed the door behind him, shooting one last glare at England and Spain as he did so.  
  
Spain chuckled and leaned against the wooden door once it was closed. “He’s your boyfriend.”  
  
England pressed himself against the wall next to Spain. “And that idiot is  _yours_. Now shut it.”   
  
“Romano is really adorable, once you get to know him,” Spain replied with a wistful smile.   
  
“I can only imagine.” He rolled his eyes. “I’d like to talk about some things while we wait, if you don’t mind?”  
  
“Ah no problem.”  
  
England stepped over to the other side of the hallway, now facing Spain. “I’d like to leave before the week is up, if you’re feeling all right.”  
  
Spain blinked, rubbing bright pink new skin on his arm. “It’s true that stopping here has done wonders for me and Romano. Our burns only itch now, there’s little pain. But…”  
  
“What of Prussia? He’s doing brilliant, really,” England said. “He should be back in top form before we leave.” Spain nodded. “He… heals very quickly, the sod. It’s likely one of the reasons he’s so damn careless.”   
  
Spain’s lips curled up into a smile at this. “Forgive me for asking, but… why is it necessary to leave now?”  
  
England's eyes flashed and his lips formed into a firm line. “There is nothing we can do down here on the ground. We are creatures of the sky, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
“Yes but…”  
  
“I am not about to let the Kosmider sit by and continue ransacking the skies,” England cut him off. “We’re strong, my crew. And as much as it was difficult for me to believe at first, we have a trustworthy ally in America.”   
  
Spain ran his fingers over the grooved wood of the door. “You wish to fight?”  
  
England shook his head in the positive, and his expression and posture radiated conviction. “I do.”   
  
“I understand.”  
  
“I respect your position, Spain,” England said. “If you want to stay behind on this island, I’m positive Australia would not mind your company for awhile.”  
  
Spain raked a hand through his hair. “I want to help, England. This is… well… we have lost everything to them. I just want to be assured of one thing. Romano---”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot. I will protect Romano as if he’s one of my own.” England reached forward and placed both of his hands on Spain’s shoulders, just for a moment, before removing them.  
  
“Then we will fight together, Captain Kirkland.”   
  
“Brilliant decision, Captain Carriedo.”   
  


* * *

  
  
Prussia slurped the last of his beer and tossed the bottle from hand to hand. Switzerland shot him a glare, irritated by his inane action. “Um, so… “  
  
“We leave as soon as possible. We’re fighting,” England had said, leaving them behind on the beach as briskly as he’d come. They weren’t foreign to the idea of England making this decision. It was difficult not to notice the unease in which England had behaved since America left. He fidgeted and glanced at the sky and barked orders with a kind of frantic tone. England wanted to be back in the sky, and he wanted it dearly. He’d brought it up briefly with them the night before, telling them to ‘not get used to the island life,’ and ‘I hope you’re ready to fight against the Kosmider. I’m sure we’ll be facing them again.’  
  
“I wish I had more ammo…” Switzerland murmured, pressing his toes into the sand and leaning forward onto his knees. “Captain got some heavy artillery and bullets from Poland but not enough…”  
  
Prussia barked out a laugh. “Well if we’re fighting, I’m sure he’ll stop and get more. Man, I better polish up Little Bird too. She’s itching for a fight…” He leaned back on his hands, and they sunk into the warm late afternoon sand. “Hey Switzerland?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“We’re getting into some pretty crazy shit here, huh?”   
  
Switzerland frowned. “This isn’t going to be easy, that’s for damn sure.” He shielded his eyes against the sun as he stared upwards.  
  
“Awww, you know I’ll be there, Switzerland.”   
  
“Shut up,” Switzerland pinked lightly and turned away. “Anyway, I don’t have a huge stake in fighting the Kosmider. I’m a pirate because it works for me, because it works for my sister. You know that…”  
  
Prussia looked slightly taken aback for a moment before he replied. “H-hey, does that mean you’re not coming… I mean…”  
  
Switzerland shook his head. “Of course I’m coming. England is my captain, and I’m loyal to that.”   
  
The other man leaned forward. “I’m kind of… I don’t know, it feels like this is really different from anything before. You know, before we just ‘nicked stuff,’ as England says. Now it’s like, this shit is real.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s different. It’s a little less awesome, a little weirder or… scarier.” Prussia paused. “But I wanna do it more than ever, because that Kosmider pisses me off so fucking bad.”   
  
Switzerland looked straight at him, his lips parting momentarily before he spoke, “Sounds like you’re in this for the long haul.”  
  
“I’m pretty damn sure I am,” Prussia replied, a smirk on his face.   
  
Switzerland’s mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles. “I guess I am too. Someone has to keep you from killing yourself.”  
  
“Aww, Switzerland!”   
  
“You’re valuable to the crew, that’s it,” Switzerland rectified.   
  
“Ahaha, right, right.”   
  
Switzerland jolted upright when he felt Prussia slap an arm across his shoulders, a hot flush spreading across his cheeks as he reached for a gun that wasn’t there. 


	21. Falling Skyship

America placed his hand above his eyes, forming a makeshift visor as he glanced at the two planes that flanked him. France and Japan, his two subordinates, with him on their first official mission as leaders of his base’s Kosmider operations. So amazing!  
  
He was practically bouncing in his seat as he flew. He was wondering if things could honestly get much more amazing for him. Captain and now this? And okay, it wasn’t a combat mission, but this was real and China believed in him. General Wang!   
  
America flipped on his radio, his cheerful voice piping through France and Japan’s speakers. “We’ll probably reach the Babako in about an hour? You two ready?”  
  
“Oui, I am prepared to use my charms to wile information out of--- “  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Good,” America interrupted. “Japan?”  
  
“Captain Jones-“  
  
“America!”  
  
“Even when we’re on such an important mission?” Japan queried.   
  
“Yup. Now’s not a time for formalities. We’ve gotta keep close, okay?”   
  
“Oh I don’t mind keeping close--- “  
  
“All right, America. I’m ready,” Japan cut in.  
  
America chuckled. “Great. Oh and shut up, France.”   
  
“Oh right, I am not  _England_ ,” France countered, his voice rich with innuendo. “It is not  _me_  you wish to keep close to. Such a tragedy,” he finished with a dramatic sigh.   
  
America’s eyes widened. “Shit France! Don’t bring up England.” He gestured wildly, despite the fact that France probably wouldn’t be able to see him. Japan didn’t know about him. Dammit! America felt guilt pool in his stomach, because his best friend didn’t know about England but  _France_  of all people did.   
  
France was laughing now. Japan cleared his throat, rather tersely. “Um, America, may I ask who England is?”   
  
There was a very slight, very polite edge to Japan’s voice, as if he were maybe just a  _tiny_  bit irritated that he hadn’t been let in on this detail of his friend’s life. America sighed. “Hey, I’ll tell you later, I promise. I didn’t even  _tell_  France. He just found out, because he’s a nosy bastard.”  
  
France gasped. “I am wounded. I was merely looking out for your well being!”  
  
“America, you don’t need to answer if you don’t wish to, but are you in a relationship?”  
  
His face flushed pink at this, and he laughed nervously. “Ahaha Japan, n-no wa--- “  
  
His words were cut off as something fell directly in front of them, from the sky above them. A flaming chunk of wooden debris, as if broken off a ship---   
  
A ship. Shit. America turned down his radio so he could hear beyond the crackling static noise. There were sounds from above, the faint whirrings of steam engines.   
  
“America, look up…” Japan trailed off, something in his voice, something like fear.  
  
“Mon dieu…”  
  
America took a deep breath and turned his face up toward the sky, through the glass of his cockpit. His eyes grew huge and his breath hitched.  
  
Less than one hundred meters above them, soaring through the sky like a great whale, was a white zeppelin, unmistakable as one of the Kosmider’s.   
  
And beneath it, slowly falling, despite obvious attempts to stay abreast, to its inevitable demise in tatters and flames, was a great wooden skyship.   
  
“Kosmider!” America yelled as he turned his radio volume back up frantically. “France, Japan! That’s a Kosmider zeppelin.”   
  
His heart hammered in his chest, and he attempted to clear his mind of the frantic emotions that raced through it. Kosmider. And, he scowled bitterly, as expected, they were on the attack. It was definitely a pirate ship, judging by the make of the ship, although it wasn’t the Victoria (thank god).   
  
And he was on a mission. He needed to get to the Babako soon.   
  
“What are  _your_  orders, Captain?” France inquired, and his tone  _dared_  America. He could tell that France was challenging him. Do we do what is right, or do we do what we've been told to? Those were the unspoken words.  
  
And he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to rise up to that challenge. He was a hero, after all.   
  
“Captain,” Japan spoke, “if we don’t hurry, we won’t make it to the island in ti—“  
  
“Captain Jones here,” America spoke over the radio, “I know, you know. I’m just trying to make this sound official. I’ll be heading up, whether you join me or not is up to you.”  
  
“But Captain, in addition to jeopardizing our mission, if you engage in combat against military protocol, you could get--- “  
  
“I don’t give a damn, Japan,” he snapped, in a firmer tone than he’d ever used with him. “And besides, this isn’t combat.” America’s lips thinned into a firm line. “It’s a rescue mission.”   
  
“Captain---- “  
  
“That ship isn’t going to wait forever for us,” America interrupted. “Japan, if you’re with me, take the left side of the ship. I know, it’s dangerous, but I won’t let anything happen to my men, all right?”   
  
Japan exhaled. “I-“  
  
“You don’t have to. France, you’d better be in on this since you egged me on!”  
  
“Oh I am...”  
  
“You take the back of the ship, it’s falling nose first.” America paused. “I don’t care how you do it, but rescue anyone on that falling ship. Get them in your cockpit, have them cling on your wing, I don’t care. Just make sure they’re safe! And if the Kosmider fires at you, don’t leave. Fire back if you have to.”   
  
France chuckled. “Very well,  _hero_.”   
  
America smirked. “You’d better believe it.” He angled his plane upwards, beginning his ascent. “Japan?” he asked, hopefully.  
  
Japan was silent for a moment. “I follow my captain’s orders.”   
  
“That’s me!”  
  
“Indeed it is, America.”  
  
He grinned, and then his grin flickered away and was replaced with an expression of grim resolve. Japan and France trailed after him, as he ascended to the flaming, falling ship.   
  
“You all should have a few missiles on your plane. Use them if the Kosmider attacks. Don’t hold back. We don’t have time for that! Our first priority is to rescue the people on the ship though,” America commanded. He rounded on the right side of the ship, the one facing the Kosmider, and immediately spotted a young woman clinging to the side, the wood splintering under her hands. America opened his cockpit. “How many?” he yelled over the din of the melee, hoping she’d be able to hear him. She put a hand to her ear, as if asking him to speak louder.  
  
“HOW MANY?” America screamed. She nodded and held up two fingers. “There are two people on the ship,” he said over the radio. “I’ll get this lady over here.”   
  
America flew as close to the ship as he could, only a hair’s breath away, and held out his hand. “HOP IN!” he shouted.  
  
“INTO A MILITARY PLANE? YA GONNA ARREST ME?” she yelled back.  
  
America shook his head. “NOT INTERESTED IN THAT, MISS! JUST HERE ON A RESCUE MISSION.” She frowned, but reached for his hand, missing the first few times before finally gaining purchase. With one quick, strong swing, he pulled the woman into the plane and onto his lap, closing the cockpit once she settled.   
  
“You’re not going to arrest me, ya said?” was the first thing she said, in a brassy bold voice. America surveyed her, noting her chin length blonde hair and bright green eyes. Judging by her clothing, a rich maroon coat being the first thing he noticed, she was definitely a pirate.   
  
America nodded. “Shake on it then? I just gotta be sure, because if you are, I’m gonna have to knock you out and take control of this plane. By the way, name’s Belgium!”   
  
America laughed. “You really are a pirate, aren’t you?” He held out his hand, and they shook. “All right.”   
  
“Captain,” came Japan’s voice over the radio, and he sounded kind of… out of breath.   
  
“You okay over there?”  
  
“I am indeed. A slight bit uncomfortable, but it’s not much of an inconvenience.”   
  
“Shit, what happened?”  
  
“Ah no, I’m perfectly all right. I managed to rescue the second passenger.”  
  
“AWESOME! What’s wrong then?”  
  
“As you know, I’m not very large in stature, Captain Jones.”   
  
The lady on America’s lap began to laugh loudly. “And you’ve got Netherlands on your lap. My brother’s half the size of one of these here planes!”   
  
“I hear a sound quite akin to the tinkling of a bell,” France cut in. “Lovely lady, my name is—“  
  
“Shut up, Belgium,” interrupted a deep male voice.   
  
“Yeah, yeah brother. Anyway, dreamboat,” she paused, poking America’s shoulder, “y’all plan on taking out that zeppelin, or is this just a rescue mission.”  
  
America flushed a bit, because when she’d turned around to touch his shoulder, her assets had ended up shoved rather soundly in his face. And she was wearing a low cut shirt. “Um…”   
  
“Oh sorry!” She turned back around. “I mean that the Kosmider was pretty much done by the time ya got here. They thought we were guaranteed dead, but then you came along and kinda messed that up, didn’t ya?”  
  
America had just enough time to dodge the missile that was coming his way. “SHIT!” he shouted. “Japan, take the back, France take the right side, I’ll take the left. That should at least handicap it so we can escape.”   
  
He wanted to take down the zeppelin entirely, damn did he want to. But this zeppelin was a lot larger than the one he’d knocked out of the sky with three missiles, and plus, he would be putting the two pirates in more danger if they stayed around longer.   
  
“Affirmative, Captain Jones.”  
  
“Oui, hero.”  
  
America’s cheeks pinked. Being called that was actually a bit embarrassing this time. “France?” Belgium queried. “Oh I know him!”  
  
America snorted. “Yeah, everyone seems to, for better or worse.”   
  
He dodged again and headed to the left side of the craft, his two men following suit. One thing about the zeppelins, America noted, was that their sheer girth made it difficult for them to maneuver from attacks. Getting in a good hit wasn’t difficult, and he quickly managed to blow a hole into the side of the white craft.   
  
France’s missile grazed, but didn’t make full contact, but that was good enough. Japan managed to knock off part of the rudder, and the great sky beast creaked under the impact. “GOOD! AWESOME! That should do it. Now everyone fly away. We’re a lot faster than this damn thing, but now we won’t have the risk of it following us. I’m out.”   
  
The three planes departed under the fire of the zeppelin, dodging its last attempts at taking them out as they headed down closer to the sea. Belgium glanced out the side of the cockpit, a sad smile on her face as her ship descended, ever more rapidly. “There goes Elegast. Thanks for everything, old girl.”  
  
“Your ship?” America asked.  
  
“Yeah, that’s her.”  
  
“Sorry,” he murmured.  
  
“My crew’s safe, that’s what counts.” She shifted slightly, America snaking his hands around her center to reach the controls.   
  
“Your crew is just your brother?”  
  
Belgium chuckled. “God no! I’d die if I just had him as company all the time. I sent ‘em all away a few weeks ago, told them they were welcome back on my ship when the Kosmider threat had passed. They fought it, loyal that they are, but in the end, I gave ‘em no choice. They’re safe, and thank all, because your crew has just three planes and I’ve got eleven pirates.”  
  
“Hold on.” America held up a finger and picked up his radio. “Hey everyone, new orders! We’re going to head to the Babako to drop these guys off, all right?”   
  
“And abandon our mission in the process?” Japan inquired.   
  
“What choice do we have?” France asked. “We can’t exactly show up and meet Officer Im with a pair of pirates in our cockpits, and the Babako is the closest place we can drop them off.”  
  
“France is right,” America confirmed. “Maybe we can still get some information. It’s worth trying!”   
  
Belgium blinked. “What are y’all looking for info on?”  
  
“The Kosmider, of course.”   
  
“Ah yeah,” she paused, “your radio isn’t open right now, is it?”  
  
“Nope. They can still radio me, but I turned the outgoing speaker off, so unless I press this,” he pointed to a button, “they can’t hear me.” He grinned. “Got something to tell me?”  
  
Belgium shrugged. “Unfortunately, not really. I mean I know what every pirate knows. We all have the same source…”  
  
America bit his lip. “The merchant?”  
  
Belgium’s green eyes grew large. “Yeah, you know? Wow, I’m really surprised someone in the military does, but I guess y’all have your intel…”  
  
America laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. “Not really. I’m probably the only guy in the military that knows about that merchant.”  
  
Belgium’s expression turned to one of curiosity. “Oho, now you’ve got me interested! First a trio of military planes deviates from a mission to rescue a pair of pirates, and now you’re telling me ya know about the source the merchants and pirates have been using?”   
  
America glanced out his cockpit, to the warm late morning sky. Puffy clouds were dissipating, leaving it wider and bluer than it had been when he’d left for the mission.   
  
“I sorta know another pirate…” he spoke, almost a whisper.   
  
“Hmm, is that so?”  
  
“Yeah a whole crew of them… weird, I know. I mean heroes like me don’t usually hang out with pirates, but it just… kind of happened,” America explained, shifting awkwardly.   
  
“Heroes like you?” She raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Yeah! I’m a hero.” He would have pointed to his chest had she not been pressed against it.   
  
“Well, you were a pretty convincing one earlier, that’s for sure! From captain to captain, I appreciate it.” She winked.  
  
“Thanks. Wait- Captain?”  
  
“That would be me. Did you think my doofus of a brother was the captain? No way, no how.” She laughed. “Anyway, who is your pirate friend, if ya don’t mind?”  
  
America shrugged. “I guess there’s no use hiding it. It’s Captain Kirkland… England?” A part of him kicked himself for revealing this. How was England viewed by other pirates? It was no big deal if they thought he was unlikable or whatever, but what if they thought he was ruthless or---   
  
No, England wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be…   
  
“Kirkland?” America nodded. “I know ‘em, but we haven’t spent much time together. He’s not exactly the friendly sort, from what I’ve seen…”  
  
“W-what do you mean by that?” America’s stomach dropped.  
  
She adjusted the headband that she wore. “I just mean he’s not very easy to talk to. Stick in the mud if I ever saw one. Feels like he’s always glarin’ at you.”   
  
America’s face broke into a fond smile. “Yeah, that’s England.” He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves to ask the next question. “So what’s he like… as a pirate?”  
  
Belgium cocked her head, confused, but then sighed after a few moments. “Not sure what ya mean? He loots, and he’ll fight ya off if you try and stop him but, what else do you wanna know?”   
  
America’s cheeks pinked a bit. “Well the thing is that I’m a hero, and… he’s a pirate and, it’s kind of weird? I mean most of the time I sorta forget that he’s even a pirate, because we’re just hanging out and--- “ Shit, he was completely rambling. His face felt hotter as well.  
  
“You’re completely red!” she chuckled. “So you’ve got a crush on this here pirate, and you want to know if your bushy eyebrowed boyfriend slits throats in his free time or somethin’?”  
  
“England wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “He’s got…”  
  
“Honor? Yup, even pirates have got some of that. If you know Kirkland wouldn’t behave like that, haven’t you answered your own question?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess so…”   
  
“Now as for how a love story between a pirate captain and a military captain ends up, you’re going to have to fill me in. I expect to be told the ending!” She smirked, winking again.   
  
America’s face flushed again. “There’s nothing like that! I wouldn't get involved in--- “  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
  
America sighed, shifting Belgium’s body a bit because damn his arms were cramping. He couldn’t even imagine how poor Japan felt right now.   
  
He frowned and bit his lip. “H-hey Belgium?”  
  
“Mmmm?”   
  
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “…Do you think it could work?” his voice was quiet, almost a cautious whisper.  
  
“Whaddya mean?”  
  
America’s cheeks burned, and he focused on the sky, averting his eyes entirely from Belgium. “Me and England.”  
  
She smiled kindly. “You’re a military aviator who left his mission behind to save a pair of pirates. Doesn’t seem like protocol is that important to ya, to be honest!”   
  
America scratched the back of his head. “Yeah well… that’s kind of… new.”   
  
“If ya like each other, I’m sure you can make it work.”   
  
He nodded and shot Belgium a winning smile. “This is all theoretical, of course.”  
  
Belgium just laughed.   
  
America flew on, knowing that they would be at the Babako very soon. He turned to spot Japan and France flying alongside him, and then faced forward once more.   
  
He felt kind of… bad for questioning Belgium about England’s behavior, like he was betraying him in a manner. But that was stupid. He was just making sure that England wasn’t hiding anything from him! Nevertheless, Belgium was right.   
  
America wouldn’t have allowed himself to become as close to England as he had, if he didn’t believe in him. And England had trusted him with so much…  
  
He sighed inwardly. Why did everyone automatically assume he was in--- he had feelings for England? Couldn’t they just be friends? It’s like he’d blurted out some kind of confession. They had no real reason to assume that he liked him like that. It was really not awesome, and even more so, really embarrassing.   
  
His mind flashed back to warm wind chapped lips pressed against his own, to the half lidded green gaze, eyelashes drawn down, before they’d made contact, to flushed scarlet cheeks and hands sifting through his hair and a tongue pushing into his mouth and---  
  
 _Do you think it could work?_  
  
Why had he even  _asked_  that? His heart was beating rapidly and he felt hot to the point of lightheadedness, as he snapped himself out of the memory of their kiss.   
  
Well, they were friends. Plus, America had promised to be his hero! He’d told England that he’d make sure that he wasn’t lonely anymore, that he’d be his champion and his knight and---  
  
And shit, that  _did_  sound kind of romantic, now that he thought about it.   
  
 _Stop dwelling on things! Heroes don’t dwell_ , America grumbled to himself. Plus, the Babako was right up ahead, he could make it out barely, and he had to get ready to land!  
  
“France!” He flipped the radio. “You’re familiar with this place, where would be the best place to land?”  
  
“You mean the most discreet?”   
  
“Yeah, that.”   
  
“Around the back end of the market, there’s a landing pad where merchants sometimes have supplies delivered. There may be some people there, but it will not be half as public as landing elsewhere, oui?” France explained. “I will lead.”   
  
America nodded. “Thanks. You still all right over there, Japan?”   
  
“Fine, America,” he wheezed out in reply.   
  
“Okay, in we go then!” He flipped off the radio speaker, and France flew in front, guiding them to the landing spot.   
  
“Sorry ‘bout derailing your mission,” Belgium piped up as America descended.  
  
America smiled lightly, raising his hand up to his forehead in a quick salute. “Don’t worry about it. I just did what any real hero would.”


	22. The Babako

Even the most ‘discreet’ part of the Babako was brimming with activity. Men and women carried boxes of wares, preparing to display them at their stores and stands. Several groups of people were leaning against the back of creaky wooden buildings and stands that made up the market, chatting amongst each other, often with cigarettes dangling from their mouths or a mid-day snack or meal in their hands. There was loud music, courtesy of a record player that was turned up to its capacity, and there were ships of all types docked, from derelict old wooden ships to newer, more streamlined vessels. A few small cargo planes took up residence behind the Babako as well. America hopped out of his cockpit, Belgium having exited before him.   
  
Several meters away, he heard Japan wheeze in relief as his passenger stepped out of the plane. He was indeed, enormous, and America felt a pang of pity for his friend. Japan slid out of the cockpit and walked over with France and Netherlands flanking him. “Where to, Captain?”  
  
America glanced around, not failing to notice the fact that much of the crowd had stopped what they were doing to whisper amongst each other about the three military planes. There was no doubt that a place such as this had some merchants who hawked black market wares, but as much as that may have been true, it wasn’t what they were after today. He ignored the chatter and smiled at Japan. “Give me a minute, okay? Then we’ll get out into the market and see what we can do.”   
  
Japan nodded. America gave him a thumb up and gently prodded Belgium in the back. “Hey, I’m gonna talk to you before we leave you, ‘kay?”   
  
“Sure thing.”  
  
America escorted her to the edge of the market, leaning against a tall wooden beam once he’d reached a place secluded enough to converse with her privately. He bit his lip. “I just wanted to…” He glanced down at his feet, tipping them back and forth. “I wanted to make sure you’re going to be all right.”   
  
Belgium smiled softly. “Thanks for worryin’ about us. My brother and I will be fine. I imagine we’ll be staying with my little brother, ya know? He’s not part of our trade, but he’s always there for us.”   
  
“Your brother?”   
  
“Luxembourg is his name, and he don’t live that far from here, actually. Some of the stores here have got telephones. We’ll get everything sorted out. I’ll miss Elegast with all my heart, but she went down fightin’.”   
  
America smiled, looking up now. “Great, that’s great.”  
  
“The skies aren’t rid of us yet though.” Belgium’s smile grew as she glanced up at the cloudy blue above her. “Once it’s safe, I’ll be takin’ myself back in the sky even if all I can get is a dingy.” She winked. “Then I’ll steal enough so I can get myself a new ship, and the crew of the Elegast will fly again!”   
  
There was a part of America that wanted to berate her, tell her to give up piracy and engage in something more heroic. But her enthusiasm, and the way she gazed at the sky, instead caused him to respond simply with “That’s wonderful.” Surprised by the words that had left his mouth, he faked a laugh. “But of course you really have the hero to thank for all of this! That’s me, so remember that!”  
  
Belgium chuckled. “I won’t forget.” America nodded mutely. “I’m a lot more worried about you, ya know? You silly brave boy.”  
  
“I’ll be fine!”   
  
“Yeah yeah, hero and all. But if you’re gonna go around rescuin’ pirates, ya gotta be prepared to face the Kosmider. They’re tough as nails.”  
  
America shook his head in the positive and leveled her a look, completely serious. “I know. I’m ready to do what I have to do.”  
  
“Then good luck.” She held out her hand, which America hesitated for a moment before grasping and shaking it. “And good luck with Kirkland too! If ya ever need to get a hold of me, he should be able to find a way.”   
  
“I-I don’t need luck with England!” America gestured with his hands in front of him.  
  
Belgium laughed, loud and warm. “You’re adorable, hero.” She leaned up, pressing a quick, friendly kiss to his cheek. His blue eyes widened and he gaped, as Belgium walked away with a wink and an impish smile.   
  


* * *

  
  
The marketplace itself was  _also_  filled to the brim with color, sound, and motion. Street musicians played, merchants yelled over each other in attempt to draw potential customers to their wares. Nooked in corners and between buildings, small booths were set up to sell what America assumed to be illegal items. Against a wall in one of these corners, he spotted a gaggle of men and women, chatting amongst each other. They shirked backwards upon spotting the trio of military men, whispering amongst each other in panic. France leaned over to America’s ear, almost brushing it, and he could feel the other man’s lips curl up in a devious smile. “We’re a bit of an anomaly in this market, oui?”   
  
“France, are those…?”  
  
“They sell all means of illegal items here, America,” France explained, speaking loud enough that Japan could also hear. “Drugs,” he paused, gesturing to the group in the corner, “sex…”  
  
America’s cheeks flushed at this, and Japan let out a gasp. “How did I get two people like you in my unit, honestly? I say ‘sex,’ and you’re horrified.” He shrugged.   
  
America bit his lip. “It's just because you're the one saying it.” He stopped in his tracks and turned to face his two men, hands on his hips. “All right, we’re gonna split up, okay? Now that me and Japan have seen the lay of the market...”   
  
They’d been walking around the market for several minutes, and it was, admittedly, not as large as America had expected. It wasn’t for lack of booths and merchants and stores. Instead, it was just so jam packed with people, buildings, and stands, that America suspected that if he wasn’t careful, his quiet and petite sergeant might just get trampled. He frowned for a moment, but then smiled and pointed enthusiastically at France. “You go wherever. I don’t know what you’re planning, and I don’t need to. Just try to get information! Remember; meet at the planes in an hour.”  
  
France shrugged, chuckling, “Very well then. I believe I saw my friend Monaco walking around. I’ll arrange a chat with her.” He winked, giving a coy half salute as he walked away.  
  
America snorted. “Friend.” He gestured to Japan. “You take the left side of the market, okay? Just try to corner people and… I don’t know. Look for people who might know something. I know this mission isn’t very awesome anymore, but we’ve at least got to try. We can’t let the general down!”   
  
Japan nodded resolutely. “Right, America.”   
  
“Left side of the market then, all right?” Japan saluted and departed, leaving America alone.   
  
America glanced around, wondering where to start. At this moment, he was wishing that he hadn’t sent Belgium and Netherlands off yet. He was sure that they were somewhere in the market still, maybe using a phone in attempt to get in touch with Luxembourg, but it was so ridiculously crowded that he didn’t hold out much hope of finding them. It was just… they might have had an idea of who to talk to?   
  
He crinkled his nose. God, this place was dirty. Dust rose underneath his feet, and the sheer volume of people made it smell something awful. He shook his head, beginning to walk right, down the length of the market. He had a brief thought, that this must be the kind of place pirates frequent often.   
  
England came to places like this then? He had trouble imagining the pirate withstanding a market like this, all cacophonic and grimy and full of unheroic activities. It wasn’t the part about not being heroic, but the fact that the England he knew was a neat freak and he had this hilarious mental image of him gasping in horror and chagrin at the state of the Babako.   
  
America stopped walking and contemplated his next move, surveying the various stalls and considering which ones would be best to approach and how to approach them. He was paused in front of a duo of young women running a stall, hawking crafts and jewelry that America could tell from a brief glance came from somewhere in Imbube; wooden statues and astoundingly detailed beadwork and colorful baskets and bags, being just a few of the items on display.   
  
One of the women seemed to have noticed America’s surveying of their booth, because she smiled widely and waved at him. “Hello soldier boy!” she called out. “Not often we see someone like you here.”   
  
She was excessively pretty, tall with dark skin and short cropped hair, and her stall mate wasn’t bad either, with her reddish-black hair pulled back in a relaxed ponytail. America shrugged inwardly and approached them.  _Well why not?_    
  
“Hi!” He waved back, smiling wide.   
  
“Care to buy something, perhaps for a sweetheart?” The other woman winked, gesturing toward a table of jewelry.   
  
America laughed. “Ah, uhh… well…” he paused awkwardly, “I’m Captain Jones, nice to meet you two.” He held out a hand, and the taller woman took it first.   
  
“Zimbabwe, and this is my partner, Kenya.” She leaned sideways against the wall of the stall. “You got something you want with us?”  
  
“What makes you think that?”   
  
Zimbabwe shrugged. “It’s just a little unusual to walk up to a merchant and introduce yourself with a handshake.”   
  
Kenya rested her arms behind her head. “Captain, we only sell legitimate goods here, so there’s nothing for you to find if you’re looking.”   
  
America blinked. “Oh!” He waved his hands in front of him. “Wow uh, no! That’s not what I’m here for at all. I mean I am on a mission, but it’s got nothing to do with shutting down merchants or whatever.” He scratched his cheek. “Of course if you are doing anything illegal, that’s totally unheroic so you should stop but…”   
  
“What kind of mission do you want to talk to us for then?” Kenya cocked an eyebrow, grabbing a bottle of soda off one of the tables and taking a sip.  
  
America cleared his throat, leaning forward as if telling a secret. “Ladies, are you at all familiar with the Kosmider?”  
  
“Who isn’t?” Zimbabwe rolled her eyes and adjusted herself so her back was to the side of the stall. “We’re traveling merchants, take our wares to markets all around the world, but we’ve been stuck here for weeks ‘cause we don’t want to mess with them.”   
  
America nodded. “Great!” he exclaimed. Zimbabwe leveled him a glare. “Not great that you’re stuck here, but great that you know about the Kosmider; because um, I’m actually here trying to find information about that.”  
  
Kenya was sitting down now in a wooden chair, her head rolled back and a frown on her face. “It really sucks. Usually we dock at tourist spots. It’s a lot easier to sell crafts there, but we figured why not try the Babako out? It’s a pretty famous place.” She took another swig of her soda. “But lately it’s been a pit.”   
  
“You mean it isn’t always like this?” America queried.   
  
Zimbabwe snorted. “Do you think we would have come here if that were the case? It’s such a mess because merchants aren’t leaving. A lot of people aren’t leaving. The inns are packed to the brim, and everyone is scared to get up in the sky again.”   
  
“But I heard that this place was kind of… seedy?” He glanced around, shifting uncomfortably.  
  
Kenya chuckled. “No seedier than any other market of this type. There’s a lot going on in the alleys, but you’ll find that in a lot of places like this. Lately it’s been worse, but that’s because there are so many damn people, so obviously the back alley dealers are going to exploit that.”   
  
“But a lot of people probably means you’re making a lot of money, right?” America offered, an optimistic smile on his face.   
  
“No way. Merchants who sell food and other necessities are having a field day with this, so are the black market dealers, but people like us?” Kenya sighed. “No one is here to buy souvenirs right now,” she finished.  
  
“They’re here because it’s a safe place to be,” Zimbabwe added, crossing her arms. “People are still trying; merchants and street performers, because what else can we do? Go up in the sky and get killed? Pass.” She scowled.  
  
America’s smile fell. “Hey uh… well… do you know anything about the Kosmider?”   
  
Kenya bit her lip in thought. “They’ve been in this area before. I heard about a zeppelin spotting not more than three or four days ago,” she began. “There was a merchant ship attacked about a week after we arrived here, which is when we decided to stay.”  
  
Zimbabwe placed a hand on her hip. “Don’t forget, there have also been rumors that Kosmider members have scouted the marketplace.”   
  
America’s eyes widened. “R-really?”  
  
She nodded. “If you believe the gossip, the Kosmider has ears everywhere,” she continued, “the merchant trade, the military, you name it.”   
  
“Hey wait, you don’t think I’m--- “  
  
“A spy?” Zimbabwe interrupted. “Nah, I don’t. Or if you are, you’re a pretty shitty one.”   
  
“Wha—“  
  
“I just mean that an actual spy would be a lot subtler than you,” she clarified. “But in truth, we don’t know much of anything else.”  
  
“We’re sorry we can’t be of much help,” Kenya said. “Honestly, I do wish you luck. The sooner they’re knocked out of the sky, the better for all of us.”   
  
America shook his head in the positive. “That’s my job! I’m going to make sure they’re taken care of.”   
  
“Wonderful,” Zimbabwe replied. She sauntered over to the table of jewelry and placed her hand on it. “Getting back to business though, do you care to buy something, perhaps for a sweetheart?”  
  
America flushed at this. He wanted to say no, because he didn’t have much money in his pocket, and it’s not like he had anyone to buy anything for—he totally didn’t at all. But they had been kind to him and discussed the Kosmider with him openly, despite the potential risk. And according to them, they weren’t making much money right now, which had to suck. “I… don’t really have a sweetheart right now?”  
  
Kenya laughed. “Are you sure? You turned bright red when we asked you.” America cursed inwardly, tired of his cheeks betraying him.   
  
He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and stepped toward the table to survey the jewelry. He’d just pick something out to appease them, because that was the heroic thing to do. He quickly skimmed over anything that looked overtly feminine. He didn’t have a girl back home to give it to, and if he did end up giving it to anyone it would be--- he willed another blush down and shook his head.   
  
Eventually his eyes settled on one particular necklace. It had a black rope chain, several pale blue wooden beads, and a bone pendant, tear drop shaped and painted a brighter blue.   
  
Blue. Blue was a nice color.   
  
“I’ll take this one.” He handed it to Zimbabwe and she smiled.   
  
“Good choice. That will be twenty-five shillings.”  
  
America sighed in relief. Good, he had enough to cover it. He reached in the pocket of his bomber jacket and pulled out the money, handing it to her and taking the necklace in exchange. She’d wrapped it in tissue paper and a small bag for him.   
  
He beamed at both of them, saluting casually. “Thanks a lot, ladies,” he paused. “You’ll be back in the sky soon, I promise.”  
  
Kenya chuckled again. “If you say so, Captain Jones.”   
  
Zimbabwe waved goodbye. “We’ll be expecting you to make good on that promise then,” she shouted as he walked away.  
  
America turned around and yelled back. “I will!” He pivoted away once again and fingered the small gift bag in his pants pocket. He took a deep breath. Okay, so it hadn’t been hugely successful, but he’d at least found out a couple of things! Maybe they wouldn’t be that useful, but it wasn’t a complete loss. He glanced at the merchants with a newfound sympathy, hoping that soon, he’d be able to help them get back in the sky. So caught up in his own thoughts was he, that he almost didn’t notice when he ran smack dab into someone.   
  
Cursing inwardly, because it sort of hurt, he glanced down to see a mop of sandy blond hair, the top of which barely hit America’s mid chest. A small boy, no older than fifteen (and that was being very generous), looked up at him, violet eyes wide and body trembling.   
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” America said genially, because the poor boy looked as if he were about to crumple to his knees. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry, did it hurt?”   
  
The boy shook his head. “N-not at all, sir,” he spoke. His accent was thick, so thick in fact, that in the loud din of the Babako, America had difficulty understanding him. “I was just on my way.”   
  
“You’re shaking.” His bit his lip guiltily. “You sure you aren’t hurt at all?”   
  
He nodded, resolutely, his quakes ceasing. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.” And much to America’s bewilderment, he forcefully pushed past America and ran, fast as he could manage, through the crowds of the Babako. Within moments, the crowds had shifted and he was completely out of sight.  
  


* * *

  
  
England gazed up at the sky from the front deck of his ship, restless with anticipation. Today they’d take to the sky again. Minutes from now even, they’d be departing. It had been four days since America had left, and three days since he’d told his crew to prepare to leave soon. If he’d had his way, they would have left that very day. This island was beautiful, but he was aching, practically hurting in his need to be back in the air. Almost two weeks away from it was far too long.   
  
And the sooner he got back in the sky, the sooner he’d perhaps be able to meet up with America. He felt a small smile grace his features. America  _had_  told him it was to be a ‘date,’ although England half considered that knowing America and his oblivious manner, he probably didn’t even realize that he said it.  _Be rational_ , he often told himself.  _Don’t get your hopes up too high_.   
  
“Everyone’s ready to cast off, England.” Australia had come up behind him, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.  
  
“Oh? Excellent then.” He nodded firmly at him. “I can’t thank you enough for having us, Australia. It was greatly appreciated.”  
  
Australia laughed lightly. “That’s what mates do, help each other out.”   
  
England’s lips quirked up in a half smile. “Indeed they do.” He proffered his hand, and Australia took it, shaking it warmly.   
  
“See you again then?”   
  
“Of course,” England replied, not missing a beat.  
  
Australia shrugged. “It’s just… blimey, it’s crazy out there. Radio me if you ever need help, all right?”  
  
England leveled him a serious look. “I will. Please take care of yourself then.”  
  
“I always do.” He turned around and waved goodbye, but pivoted halfway and smirked once he was several meters away. “And good luck with America, right?”   
  
England’s face bloomed red. “T-thank you.”   
  
Australia jogged off the ship and waved goodbye from the beach. Under England’s feet, the steam engines came to life. Prussia would be down in the bowels of the ship making sure everything was working to order, and Switzerland was nearby at the wheel, preparing for duty. Spain and Romano were watching the sails. Sealand and Liechtenstein were below deck. Steam began puffing out of the exhaust pipe that rose in the middle of the ship, and England smiled as he felt it begin to lift out of the water.   
  
England ran over to join Switzerland, taking the wheel from his hands and guiding the Victoria upwards into the air, the wind catching the sails as it took flight, and after several minutes, reached the desired latitude and leveled out.   
  
He glanced over the side of the ship, at the vivid teal of the sea below. Then he looked up, at the spacious blue of the sky above. England exhaled deeply and closed his eyes, the cool breeze washing over his face.


	23. Connection

The workshop was warm, and America had rolled up his sleeves and taken off his vest to combat the heat. It was caused by steam that seeped out of various machines and mechanisms scattered throughout the room. Tinkling brass mechanisms, turning gears, puffs of steam, and amongst all of it, America stood with Canada at a table in the center of the room, working on something special.  
  
“Pass me that pair of pliers next to your arm, would you?” America wiped mist off of his glasses and glanced at his cousin. Canada threw him the tool, going back to trying to fit two gears into the invention they were working on.  
  
It was an automaton. Canada had been working on it for almost a year with the help of his cousin, and it was almost, almost done. The invention had started out as a bit of a joke. Canada had remarked that he missed his parents’ dog, and lamented the fact that pets were not allowed on base. America had quipped that perhaps he should just make a pet, and in a moment of madness, they’d decided to do just that. The little clockwork bear, which they’d decided to name Kumajirou (Japan had suggested the name), was on the brink of completion. It had been tough, and there had been several unsuccessful prototypes along the way, but America just knew that he and Canada had it right this time. He couldn’t wait to see Kumajirou wound up for the first time.   
  
“It’s a good thing the colonel was okay with what happened, eh,” Canada said.   
  
America was bending wires into shape on what was to be the bear’s ear. “Well things happen, you know? We got delayed, nothing we can do about it.”   
  
The truth was, that the trio of aviators had mutually decided it best not to say anything unless they were asked. And America was asked, but the colonel had accepted ‘we got delayed’ without further question. America’s bewilderment had been clear on his face, as much as he attempted to hide it, so the colonel had clarified that their delay had already been cleared and accepted by General Wang, who was above him in rank.   
  
America’s admiration for China swelled. He really, really seemed to be pulling for him and his role as leader of Aquila Kosmider operations. It was awesome.   
  
Canada shot him a wary look. He knew the truth of what had occurred. America had told him almost immediately upon returning. It had been four days since then.   
  
“When are you going out again?” Canada queried, pulling a wrench out of the pocket of his pants.   
  
America took his glasses off, tired of the steam fogging his vision. “We’re going to Medved next week. The northwest tundra, below the Lyod Strait.”  
  
“Because of what Japan learned?”  
  
Yup.” Japan had been luckier than America. He’d ended up with, of all great finds, a possible location for the area in which the Kosmider built their zeppelins. One thing he hadn’t gotten was the man’s name who had given him the information, which made it a little sketchy, but still worth pursuing. “If we find something, we’ll call up reinforcements from the Sinni Base down south a little, and… arrest and detain.” America beamed. If this worked out, no one could deny he was a hero! He was in charge of leading the mission, after all.   
  
Canada smiled. “That’s great, eh. Hope it works out…” He paused. “But you’re free until then right?”  
  
America nodded. “Except for some normal duties at the base and a few briefings, yeah.”  
  
He snatched America’s almost complete bear ear away from him and rolled it in his hand. “I really think we can get Kumajirou done in the next few days then!”   
  
“Yeah, definitely,” America responded, but his mind conjured up a flash of green eyes and a pair of flushed cheeks. “Although… I do have something else I might be doing this week.”  
  
“Eh, really?”  
  
“Maybe, depends on a couple of things.” He shrugged. Like if England is even back in the sky yet… “But I’ll still work on Kumajirou with you. I think we should still be able to get him done amazingly.”   
  
Canada bit his lip and frowned slightly, going back to his work with a shake of his head. “If you say so eh.” 

* * *

  
  
Romano smacked the radio, cursing at the fuzzy reception they were getting in this remote area of the ocean. He was about to smack it again, when the sound of England curtly clearing his throat stopped him.  
  
England was sitting on his bed, a book resting in his hand and a frown on his face. “I’ll let you radio your brother again, but I bloody well won’t let you break the damn thing in the process.”  
  
Romano rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath. England could be such an ass. Like he was going to break the radio. What did he take him for, someone who couldn’t control his temper?   
  
He turned the radio off and switched it right back on, tuning into the frequency again. It had cleared up slightly. “Hey!” he spoke.   
  
A pause.   
  
“Ve, Romano, is that you?” Veneziano’s voice over the radio. “It’s really late here. Germany and I are about to leave the office.”   
  
Romano nodded. “Che, I know. I tried radioing you earlier…”  
  
“Ah, sorry about that!” he exclaimed. “Germany and I were out on a mission. Romano, he let me drive the tank!”  
  
“What the hell, that idiot better be taking care of you.” Romano rubbed his forehead. Germany was such a pain. He was obnoxious and smelled funny and was always dragging his brother into danger. But Veneziano adored him, following him around like a puppy and well, Veneziano hadn’t been too shy about telling him that Germany adored Veneziano right back. “Dammit! I was just checking in. We left the island a couple of days ago, so we’re back up in the sky again.”   
  
“Wow, that’s great,” he drawled out. “I hope we can see each other again, brother.”  
  
Romano frowned. “Yeah, gotta make sure you’re taking care of yourself, since no doubt that bastard isn’t doing it.”  
  
“Ve, you mean Germany? Germany takes care of me perfectly!” Veneziano argued.  
  
“I don’t trust him,” Romano snapped. They’d had this argument so many times before. “Anyway, I’ll make sure England allows us to meet up again soon. I’ll keep in touch.”  
  
“Thanks, Romano. I like to know that you’re safe,” Veneziano’s voice softened.   
  
“You too. See you then.” He turned off the radio.   
  
Standing up, he noticed that England had put his book down on his lap and was giving him a surprised look. Prussia stood in the doorway as well now, seemingly waiting to talk to his captain. His expression was also taken aback.   
  
“How do you propose we meet up with your brother?” England asked. “I don’t plan on docking near any military bases. It’s hardly safe.”  
  
Romano scowled. “Do you think I’m that stupid? Spain let us see each other a lot. We’d just meet up at a random place, somewhere on a coastline in Habicht or some crap like that.”  
  
“Fine,” England agreed. “But make sure to let me know far in advance when and where. I’m not going to come down from the sky whenever someone on the crew has a whim. It’s not safe.”   
  
Gesturing flippantly, Romano turned to exit the room. “Whatever.” He met Prussia at the door. “Move, dammit.”  
  
Prussia stood still. “Hey, if we see your brother, maybe it’d be better if he didn’t bring that other guy with him, you know?” His tone was oddly thoughtful, for Prussia, at least.   
  
“You mean Germany?”   
  
“Yeah, sure, him,” Prussia replied. “It’s just that it wouldn’t be very awesome to allow all these military people near our ship. Keep pirates to pirates, you know?”   
  
Romano scratched the back of his head. “Germany is a bastard, and I don’t want him here, but knowing Veneziano, he’ll bring him anyway.”  
  
Prussia nodded mutely, still subdued. “Yeah, yeah. Just let me know when, man, so I can make sure the ship is safe… and stuff.”   
  
Romano shrugged. “I’ll let England handle that.” He walked past Prussia, out of the room. “Thanks for letting me use your radio, even if you were a jerk about it.”  
  
England just rolled his eyes. “Spain is probably waiting for you on deck.”  
  
“Fine, whatever. I’ll go make sure he’s not doing anything too stupid then,” Romano responded, jogging away.   
  
Prussia stepped into the room, sitting down in the chair Romano had just been using. England set his book aside entirely and raised his eyebrows. “Can’t have too many military men near our ship? That sounds rather like something I would say.”  
  
“Well, maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” He smirked. “Though that’s a scary thought. Haha.”   
  
“It would do you some good.”   
  
“Or your hatred of the military has transferred to me, since you’re obviously very  _fond_  of it now, if you know what I mean.” Prussia nudged his elbow toward England.   
  
England frowned, his cheeks blooming pink. “America is  _not_  the military. He is only one man.”   
  
“Aha, so you admit that you like him!” Prussia grinned.  
  
England turned his face away. “He is my friend. Anything else is… none of your business.”   
  
Prussia went silent for a moment, before casually replying, “Bet that was a nice kiss he gave you, huh?”  
  
Smack. England’s book hit him straight in the face, and when it fell away, he was met with crimson cheeks and deeply furrowed eyebrows. “Shut it, or it’s the mast for you.”   
  
Prussia raised his hands in defeat. “All right, all right. Man…”  
  
England took a deep breath, calming his nerves. “I know you don’t hate the military Prussia, so what the hell was that thing with Romano about?”   
  
He glanced down at his feet, his lips turning downward. “You know we have an agreement, England. Not to ask each other questions about…”  
  
England’s eyes widened. “I-I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea it had anything to do with--- I thought you were just being contrary or some such.” He picked up his book from where it had fallen on the floor next to Prussia’s chair. “I shall drop the subject immediately; forget it was ever brought up.”   
  
Prussia nodded, his expression brightening. “Thanks, man.” The room fell into silence, England going back to his book and shooting Prussia look every few moments, wondering why the hell he was still there.  
  
“Did you have something else you needed to talk about?”  
  
Prussia stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “Nah. I really just came here to say that Spain offered to cook dinner tonight. He got some stuff when we picked up supplies from the merchant ship yesterday.”  
  
England sighed. “Oh lovely. Indigestion.”  
  
“What are you talking about? His food is awesome.”   
  
Putting his book down again, England shrugged. “I’ve never taken well to food from the Toro region, to be honest. But it’s all right.”  
  
“Ahaha, you and your bland food,” Prussia stifled his amusement. “Guess I’ll be going then…”  
  
“It’s not bland. You just have no taste,” England snapped, but Prussia was already out the door, barking out a laugh as he walked away. 

* * *

  
  
America was so glad that he’d kept the crank radio England had loaned him. He was supposed to return it, but he hadn’t brought it up on the island, in hopes that England wouldn’t ask. It was… easier to talk to England with the crank radio, safer too.   
  
He slid under his bed and pulled it out, nearly whacking his head on the bed frame in the process. America had transferred the radio out of his plane and into his bedroom shortly after arriving home from the island. It was kind of dumb to keep it in the plane, where anyone in the hangar could find it. Plus, if he wanted to talk to England, he didn’t want to do it in a public area. Not after last time, when his cousin had gotten angry and France had been… France.   
  
Propping himself up on the bed with the radio, America sighed and glanced at the watch on his belt. Seven ‘o’ clock. If England was still on or around the island, it would be eleven where he was. That was late enough that he might be in his cabin.   
  
He placed his hand on the crank and paused. Here he was, about to contact England, after almost a week. And they were going to meet up again and… hang out, or whatever. He liked spending time with the guy, he was a pretty good friend, as good as a pirate could be, at least.  
  
 _And an awesome kisser…_  
  
No, friendship wasn’t the right word, was it? America willed down the flush that rose on his cheeks and cranked the radio, exhaling deeply as he did so. It was already on the correct frequency.   
  
The radio crackled into life. “H-hello, you there England?”  
  
The reply was almost instantaneous. “America?”   
  
“Yeah…”  
  
“You caught me at a good time.”  
  
“Oh really? Great.” America beamed.  
  
“Yes, I was sitting at my desk working on a letter….” he trailed off. “Anyway, how have you been? You sound sprightly.”  
  
America stifled a quiet laugh. England always used such weird words. “I’m doing great. Had a mission last week, and we’ve got a pretty cool one next week too. The Kosmider is going down, England.”  
  
England scoffed, but gently. “Oh, is that so? Well, we’re off the island now, so we’ll be doing our part as well. Left two days ago.”   
  
America bit his lip.  _If you stayed on the island, you’d be safe._  But he knew that England wanted to fight the Kosmider, and they were going to work together on it. “Oh, really? Awesome. So the ship is doing all right and stuff?”  
  
“Yes, Victoria is flying perfectly,” England responded. “And we managed to stop by a merchant yesterday. She’s soon going to be leaving the skies for an indefinite amount of time, at least until the Kosmider threat is over… so she was willing to barter for less, get rid of her stock.”  
  
“You got a lot of crap then?”  
  
“Quite a lot, enough for a couple of months.”  
  
“That’s good…”   
  
They fell into an awkward silence, punctuated only by America faking a cough at one point.  
  
Finally, England cleared his throat. “Well get to it. Did you radio me for no reason, you git?”  
  
“Jeez, England. Be patient…”   
  
“Patience is a virtue you hardly have yourself, so don’t expect it of me.”   
  
America frowned. He wanted to ask England, he really did. And to be honest, England had sounded sort of expectant, like he was waiting for America to ask about their… get together.   
  
“S-so about that date,” America finally said, pretending to be casual, although his heart was racing.   
  
England’s breath hitched, and America wondered if he was blushing. He got flustered so easily. “Y-yes?”  
  
“Can you get to the Világfa in two days, on Friday, because I---“  
  
“Yes, absolutely. Shouldn’t be a problem at all, considering where we are right now…”  
  
“Wow, you sound really eager!” America laughed, but truthfully, he was feeling as eager as England sounded.   
  
“Shut it,” England snapped. “I-I’m not eager. Don’t get me wrong--- I just… oh never mind.”   
  
“You’re so funny,” America replied, grinning. “How about that evening then? I can stay in the inn or whatever, even though I bet it’s a totally unheroic establishment.”  
  
“You’ve slept on a pirate ship for three nights. I think you can handle the Világfa.”   
  
“That was different,” America said lamely.   
  
“I fail to see how,” England remarked dryly. “Anyway, how does six p.m. sound?”   
  
“Sounds great… just meet at the Világfa then?”  
  
“Right, of course.”  
  
America tapped the side of the radio. He wanted to say more, wanted to talk with England and have a conversation with him. But damn, everything was just weird right now. He was comfortable with him before… they’d kissed, but now it was different, a strange new something that he wasn’t quite sure how to approach. But he was a hero, and he could take on any something that was thrown his way. England was no exception… he was totally sure of it.  
  
“America?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“Can I ask you a question?” he sounded tentative.   
  
“Yeah, go for it.”  
  
“Prussia brought something up earlier,” he paused, his voice having grown quiet, “he seemed to have known what h-happened in the water… you know…”  
  
America’s cheeks reddened. “I-I didn’t tell him! He just kind of guessed, I swear! I mean you know how Prussia is…”  
  
He exhaled in relief. “I figured it was something like that, but I wanted to check.”   
  
America shook his head vehemently. “Like I’d tell Prussia something like that, jeez.”   
  
England chuckled. “Good then.” Quiet settled between them once more, and England broke it again. “I’m rather glad you radioed.” His pitch was barely above a whisper.  
  
“R-really?”   
  
“Quite…” He cleared his throat and spoke again, even quieter, “I-I-I rather missed you… to be quite honest.”   
  
At this, America’s heart leapt into his throat and he swallowed thickly, a warm heat coursing through his body. “I feel the same,” he responded, whispering himself, his voice soft.   
  
He did miss England. It hit him heavily. He’d been thinking about him… a lot, and while he liked spending time with his best friend and his cousin and even France, to a degree, England occupied a completely different role in his life. And he’d been wanting that, been desiring to at least speak to him.   
  
Lately he’d had two things on his mind, the Kosmider and England. Sometimes the two intertwined, but always, thinking of England was both comforting and confusing, simultaneously making him want to smile and making him want to push the subject away, to think of anything else. But the former part was starting to win out more often than not.  
  
America missed England, he truly did. And England, England missed him too!   
  
“That is… that is good to know, America.”   
  
“Awesome to know from you too,” he said, half breathless.   
  
England cleared his throat loudly. “Right well, I think I’m going to go to bed. I’m feeling a bit peaky. Spain cooked tonight, and his cooking and I don’t get along.”   
  
“Wow, it must be really bad if you can’t eat it. Or really good,” America teased.   
  
“Oh belt up, idiot,” England grumbled.   
  
America chuckled. “Feel better, England.”   
  
“I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning. Thank you very much.”  
  
“Great then, ‘cuz you’ve got to get to the Világfa!” America exclaimed.   
  
“Indeed.” He paused. “I’m ah, I’ll be awaiting our date with anticipation,” England rushed out the statement in nary a breath, so fast that America almost missed it.  
  
“Me too. G’night, England.”  
  
“Good night, America.”  
  
America turned off the radio and placed it under his bed. He hopped back on the bed, lying down and resting his hands behind his head, a wide smile on his face.  
  
It was only then that he realized that both he and England had called their meeting a ‘date’ during the whole conversation.


	24. Relationships and Revelations

“Belarus, the weather has been beautiful recently, yes?” Russia was leaning over the gondola of the zeppelin, the breeze playing with his scarf as he breathed in the cool air. “Perfect to take to the skies again.”  
  
Belarus nodded, inching closer to Russia in the most discreet manner she could manage. “Yes, Russia, dear.”   
  
“And perfect for the mission I have given you,” Russia added.   
  
“I still think that I could do something more,” she countered. Belarus bit her lip and frowned, placing a hand atop Russia’s. He did not flinch.   
  
Russia smiled at her. The gears were clicking into place, the mechanics of his plans, every person and machine that made them up, were falling into precise order. And Belarus, dear, loyal Belarus, was tantamount to their fulfillment.   
  
Belarus complained about how Russia did not entrust her with enough. But how could she not understand that this simple action,  _her_  duty, was the switch that would put his well oiled machine into motion?  
  
“Dear Belarus,” he spoke, quiet and reassuring, “there is no one else I can trust with this but you.”   
  
Russia squeezed her hand gently.   
  
Belarus inhaled. She looked down for a moment, before nodding resolutely. “I am honored then.”   
  
Russia walked across the gondola, running his finger down one of the steel bars once he’d reached the other side. “There are cracks in the military, and we will seep into every single one.” He glanced skyward, shielding his eyes with one gloved hand. “That is, once our brave Captain Jones is out of the way…”  
  


* * *

  
  
Switzerland was polishing the cannons, a habit he’d taken to commonly engaging in. That was, when he wasn’t polishing his guns. The weather that day was warm and welcoming, and every member of Victoria’s crew was at top deck, engaging in their chosen activities.   
  
Sealand was busy working on his  _own_  pirate ship. It was a small dingy that he’d christened the Charlotte, and he continually threatened England with the fact that he was one day going to get it a steam engine, sails, and run away, if England didn’t stop giving him so many chores and didn’t start letting him do actual  _pirate_  things.   
  
Liechtenstein was playing a rousing game of ball with Spain and Romano. Earlier that day, they’d lost one ball because she’d kicked it so hard it flew over the edge of the ship. Luckily there were a few extras down in storage.   
  
England was sipping tea and reading, as per usual. He was up next to the wheel, having taken a chair up there.   
  
Prussia was right next to Switzerland, leaning against the side of the ship by the cannon and presumably going out of his way to annoy the hell out of him. Switzerland thought, this was Prussia’s greatest strength; even greater than his skill with the blade.   
  
“Rumor has it that England has a hot date tomorrow,” he said, a smirk on his face. “We’re headed for the Világfa.”  
  
“Good for him,” Switzerland replied, inspecting a small scratch on the cannon with disdain. “I know this. Why are you telling me?”  
  
“Haha. I was thinkin’ that since he’s going out, we might head to a bar as well?” he queried, actually looking a bit nervous. “Of course not the Világfa, England would have me on the mast for days if I showed up at the same place he was at.”   
  
Switzerland’s cheeks flushed, but he cleared his throat and frowned. “I think we should go to the Világfa then. I’d really like to see you on the mast for a few days.”   
  
“Awww, c’mon!”  
  
“Did you just put your dirty hand on the cannon?” Switzerland snapped. “I’m going to have to polish it again now, and this polish isn’t cheap.”  
  
Prussia snorted. “It’s a  _cannon_. It’s going to get dirty.”   
  
Switzerland rolled his eyes. “Like I don’t see you polishing that sword Little Bird all the time…”  
  
“Haha fair point.” His smirk turned into a half smile. “But seriously, you and me? Spain and Romano could take care of the kids, and we could have an awesome night out?”  
  
“I’m not spending money,” Switzerland replied dryly.  
  
Prussia shrugged. “Fine, fine.” He sighed. “But I was gonna pay for it, of course.”  
  
Switzerland froze. “Can you promise it will be somewhere that serves large portions? I’d like to get our money’s worth enough that we can take leftovers back to the ship.”   
  
Prussia grinned and pumped his fist. “Hell yes, I know just the place.”   
  
Switzerland looked away in attempt to hide the blush that colored his cheeks. “This food had better be amazing, if it warrants having to deal with you for multiple hours.”  
  
Prussia laughed and bounced away. “Haha. Trust me. The awesome me is going to give you one awesome night!”  
  
Switzerland followed him with his eyes for a few moments, noticing that he’d approached Spain, presumably to join the ball game. He went back to polishing his cannons. Prussia was an idiot, the biggest idiot he’d ever met, bar none. But he was a friend, and there was no reason for him to turn down a free meal.   
  
He glanced up to England, who was quite a distance away. He really did appear to be going on a date with the military aviator. His mood had been sunnier than usual the entire day, which in turn had perked everyone else up. Switzerland had no reason not to trust America, outside of the fact that he rarely trusted anyone. But he felt immensely protective of his captain. Thus, it was difficult to quell his wariness. If England came back from that date heartbroken, Switzerland knew he wouldn’t be the only member of the crew irate. Although even if the date did go wonderfully for England, Switzerland wasn’t likely to be in a good mood anyway. A night out with Prussia would guarantee that.   
  


* * *

  
  
“I’m telling you Japan, the Aquila Avenger is the coolest superhero of all time,” America exclaimed, shoving a comic toward his best friend. They were in America’s dorm, seated next to each other on his bed, with scads of comic books in front of them.   
  
Japan took the comic book from America’s hands, flipping through it and setting it down. “America, we’ve had this conversation many times. While I acknowledge that the Aquila Avenger has merit, I just honestly prefer Lord Magicus.”  
  
America sighed and shook his head. “Japan, Japan, Japan, you just don’t get it man! The Aquila Avenger is the greatest hero ever because he does everything himself! He’s a genius! He made steam powered wings so he can fly on his own. You read that issue right?”   
  
“That was right after Genevieve found out his secret identity right?”   
  
America nodded, reaching into the pile and pulling out said issue. It featured the Aquila Avenger, holding his beautiful black haired girlfriend Genevieve flush to his side. Great metal wings were spread out behind him. “That’s right, and once he’d tested the wings, he took Genevieve up to fly with him.” A sort of dopey smile crossed his features. “Pretty awesome, huh?”   
  
Japan shrugged.   
  
“But Lord Magicus? He’s all right, but he didn’t have to do anything! He was just given his abilities, and it’s not quite as heroic if you don’t work hard, you know?” America gestured as he explained this, pulling up an issue of Lord Magicus and flipping through it in the process. “I mean alchemy is cool and all, but not as cool.”  
  
Japan huffed lightly. “America, if you don’t mind me saying, even though he was just given his abilities, he had to work hard to perfect them.” He paused, putting down his comic book. “And he had to defy the society of alchemists when he found out about their human experimentation. That’s why he decided to become a superhero, to combat them.”  
  
“I know all that!” America picked up the issue where the Aquila Avenger took his first flight once more. It was tattered, an old first press copy that had been printed seventeen years before. “I grew up with the Aquila Avenger though. When I read this issue, back when I was like… five, it just made me want to fly even more! This is even that  _same copy_.” He grinned widely, pressing his finger to the cover for emphasis.   
  
Japan laughed quietly. “I’ve heard this story before, America.”  
  
“Yeah, well we’ve had this argument a lot, haven’t we?” He bounced slightly on the bed. Japan nodded. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree again, although I know I’m right.”  
  
“Of course, as always, America,” he replied, with a slight, almost indiscernible edge of sarcasm. America did not pick up on it.  
  
“You bet.”   
  
America really did enjoy spending time with Japan. He felt he could honestly be entirely himself around the sergeant, who was two years older than him. Canada had been surprised at how well the two of them had gotten on, he’d told America at one point. Japan was quiet and reserved, whereas America was loud and boisterous. But they clicked, and their common interests helped that along as well. Japan knew as much about comic books as him, after all!  
  
Even if, America argued, he had better taste in them.   
  
Tonight was the first time in a few weeks that he’d really spent a lot of time alone with Japan. Previously they’d been busy, or he’d been gone, or France and Canada had been there as well. But he’d set aside this night for just him and his friend. Because he had something he really and honestly needed to tell him.  
  
Canada knew about England. France knew about England. It was only right that Japan did as well!   
  
America gathered up the comic books into a pile and set them on his nightstand. Japan glanced at him curiously. “I thought you were wanting to show me that new issue of  _Clockwork Justice_ , America?”   
  
America shrugged and waved his hand. “You can just borrow it, okay? I actually have something I wanna talk to you about.”   
  
“Very well, what is it?”  
  
Snatching a half empty bottle of soda from his nightstand and adjusting himself on the bed, America took a swig and then pursed his lips. How to begin?  
  
“It’s kind of like this…” he started. “You know how I’ve been away recently? I mean not away, but when I was not at the base those three nights?”  
Japan nodded, looking a bit wary.  
  
America laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. “Truth is, I was meeting up with someone. Not the first time! My plane really did break down. That’s how I met him. I landed on his ship to make repairs and…”  
  
He was babbling.   
  
“France mentioned someone named England, remember?”  
  
Japan blinked. “Yes, I remember.”  
  
“First time, I landed on his ship for repairs,” America began again. “Second time, I helped save his crew from the Kosmider and stayed since it was so late. The third time I just kind of… went to visit him.”   
  
“This… England?” Japan raised his eyebrows.   
  
America averted his eyes, worried that his cheeks might be pinking. “Yeah. He’s… a pirate.”  
  
Japan’s eyes grew wide, his surprise apparent. “Truly America… I’m a bit shocked. It does explain a lot though.”   
  
He took a gulp of his drink, almost wishing it were alcohol. “Yeah… but Japan, I promise, he’s a pretty good guy, outside the… stealing things,” America argued. “He’s totally on our side against the Kosmider and he’s…” He knew he was blushing now. “He’s a good friend.”   
  
“I trust that he’s a decent person, America,” Japan replied.  
  
“Really?” America beamed, leaning forward and resting his hands on the bed. “That’s great! I’m going to meet up with him again tomorrow night! Don’t tell anyone. It’s kind of a secret.”  
  
Japan rubbed his forehead. “I’m not of the belief that you would consider a friend anyone that you didn’t believe to be good, America.” He shifted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “When you call yourself a hero, I know that you mean it.”   
  
“Yeah, of course. Heroes don’t say they’re heroes unless it’s true!” America exclaimed.   
  
Japan shook his head. “I just hope that you’ll be careful. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”   
  
America bit his lip. “I-I’m helping against the Kosmider! England wants to fight them. If we teamed up with his crew, we could do so many awesome things! I mean he’s the captain, and I’ve seen his crew fight the Kosmider. They’re so good, Japan. You wouldn’t even believe it.”  
  
Japan did not reply. Quiet settled between the two friends, as they sat next to each other. Japan was unmoving, as if in deep thought. America was swinging his legs back and forth to pass the time.  
  
“America,” Japan finally spoke, “can you tell me about England? As in, England, as a person?”  
  
America blinked, nonplussed. “What a weird question.”  
  
“I apologize if you find it intrusive,” Japan said, gesturing in front of him. “If you do not wish to answer, I understand.”  
  
America waved his hand. “Nah, it’s okay.”   
  
But how to answer Japan? Well there was a lot to say about England. He thought he knew him pretty well. He wasn’t quite sure what Japan was wanting anyway…  
  
 _I guess I’ll just say what comes to me?_    
  
“His last name is Kirkland, and he is the captain of the Taliesin Pirates. Their ship is called the Victoria,” America began. “Um, he became captain when he was really young. He’s only a year older than me.”   
  
Japan nodded, motioning him to continue.  
  
“He’s… a little short, and he’s got blonde hair, a different color than mine, that always looks kind of messy. Uh, green eyes and… really big eyebrows.” America felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips as he pictured what he’d just described. “He’s kind of grumpy, and he complains a lot.” He wrinkled his nose. “Cooks terrible food too.”  
  
“Hmm, he doesn’t sound like a very nice man, if you’ll forgive me for saying.” Japan tapped his chin.  
  
America laughed. “Nah, that’s not it at all. I mean I guess he can be a bit of a jerk, but it’s not that he’s mean.” He leaned back on his hands. “He’s just really stodgy, acts about forty years older than he is.”  
  
Now that he thought about it, Japan acted older than he was as well. But not like England. Japan was just overly polite. England was… England.  
  
“That’s strange. I wonder why that is?”  
  
America glanced up at the ceiling. “I think it’s ‘cuz he’s lonely.”  
  
Japan blinked. “I see.”  
  
“Luckily he has a hero to take care of that, huh?” America beamed brightly and pointed at himself.   
  
A small smile crossed Japan’s lips. He made eye contact with America. “That would be you?”  
  
America nodded firmly. “Yeah, I promised to be his hero back when we kis---“   
  
His blue eyes grew large and he immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. Had he really just…?  
  
Japan was his best friend. He was so comfortable around him. Of course it might just slip out!  _Shit. Shit. Shit._    
  
His cheeks bloomed scarlet, and he had to stop himself from turning away entirely.  
  
Japan merely smiled. “I thought as much. I wasn’t going to take France’s word for it, so I wanted to find out myself. I hope you don’t mind.”  
  
“Mind… what?” America asked, his throat feeling rather dry.  
  
Japan leaned forward, cocking his head to one side and giving him a curious look. “America, are you perhaps, in love with this England?”  
  
America’s shoulders dropped, his body going slack. Even more heat was spreading rapidly to his face, and he thought that if his heart started thrumming any faster, he might just pass out. He could hear it in his hears.  
  
It was so obvious.  _So damn obvious._  
  
When France had said it, it meant nothing. France would say that regardless of whom he was spending time with. Hell, he’d made jokes about him and  _Japan_  before. When Prussia said it, it didn’t mean that much more. Prussia loved to tease, and besides, he had his own motivations. He wanted to make his captain happy, so he might have just been telling America what he hoped was true. When Belgium said it? Well she didn’t even  _know_  him.   
  
But Japan! Japan was his best friend. He was polite and honest and really had no ulterior motives for saying this. America could find no excuse for Japan’s observation. It was just… right.   
  
Blindingly obvious to everyone but himself, and he felt like such an  _idiot_  for it.   
  
A gentle bandaging of the cheek. An enthusiastic hug. His hand clasped atop England’s, flipping out when he realized where it was. His arms around him at the campfire. His body curled next to his in bed, so at peace and content in his warmth. His fingers running through his hair, across his face, as he slept. Marveling in the fact that England was actually pretty damn cute. His body flush against his in the water. A promise to cure his loneliness, to be his champion.  
  
A kiss, long and yearning and so  _right_.   
  
A one armed hug and a tender goodbye. And just the previous night, a proclamation that he had really and truly missed England, as well as plans for a date.  
  
At first England had infused him with anger, indignant and unheroic and just… completely patronizing. Then America discovered England’s worth, and England discovered America’s as well. Camaraderie, friendship, companionship, and then---   
  
“Y-yeah Japan, I think I am.”  
  
Love. He’d been on the cusp since that day on the island, but he’d prevented himself from realizing it, from acknowledging what was so there and so strong and so true.  
  
And instead of being upset, as he must have subconsciously thought he would be, he felt a gentle warmth spread throughout him, sweet and content, like one of England’s rare smiles.   
  
He really loved England, and he wanted nothing more than to see him again, pirate or not.


	25. The Világfa

Japan was in a long distance relationship. He was secretive about it, but everyone in the unit knew that his relationship with Greece, a soldier from Delphys, was not one of friendship. Okay, so he had pretty much outright told America once, but even then, he’d been rather understated. “Greece and I are very close, yes. We are ah, more than friends,” is what America remembered him saying.   
  
After admitting out loud that he loved England to Japan, America had tried to backtrack and deny his words a couple of times, despite knowing inwardly that they were true. Japan, although polite about it, would have none of that, and America eventually resigned himself to Japan, sulking as he did so.   
  
He reasoned to himself that it was a fair exchange. Japan had admitted to him (sort of) that he was in love with Greece, and America had confessed that he loved England.   
  
Not long after, America had shooed Japan out of his dorm, telling him where he was going the next day and reasoning that he needed sleep since he’d be getting up early. It was true. He did need sleep, but it was mostly his desire to be alone so he could think on what he’d just realized that drove him to ask his friend to leave.   
  
In the end he didn’t think on it much, instead deciding to read a few old issues of the comic books he’d had out and take an early bed time. It was… not as if he wasn’t going to have tons of time to think on it in the future, if he even really needed to. When his mind averted to England now, he thought of all the things he had before, with the addition of acknowledged romantic affection, as well as a sprinkle of still-feeling-like-an-idiot-for-not-realizing-it-until-now.  
  
But he slept surprisingly well. In the end, he realized, accepting his feelings had relaxed him.   
  
In the morning he was buoyant, loose and refreshed and upbeat even for him. He felt good, like he’d let out a breath he’d been holding for the past week. And he was so ready; ready to fight the Kosmider and to go on a date with England.  
  
Okay, actually his face kind of heated up and he got nervous and fidgety whenever he thought about the date. But he was still excited! Excited enough to plow through breakfast and be ready to take to the sky at 0600 hours, even. The Világfa was an estimated ten hours away, but he was allowing himself twelve, in case he had to detour because of weather or, god forbid, something worse.   
  
Besides, he kind of wanted to get there early so he could rent a room and clean up a bit. He was bound to feel sweaty and grimy after such a lengthy plane ride. And if this was a date? Heroes didn’t arrive for their dates looking anything less than their best.   
  
With a pack on his shoulder containing two changes of clothes, one for that evening and an extra uniform for the next day, and an early breakfast in his stomach, America entered the hangar area and approached his plane.   
  
Canada was waiting for him; his glasses perched over sleepy eyes and his pajamas wrinkled, as if he’d just hopped out of bed.   
  
America smiled. “Hey Canada! Did you just come to wish me goodbye and stuff? I mean it’s kind of early though…”  
  
Canada had a look on his face, despite his bleary state. America recognized it as the expression he wore when he was trying his damndest to work up an assertive attitude. His lips were pursed and his fists were clenched. He was obviously not there to say goodbye.   
  
“You’re going to see the pirate again, aren’t you?” Canada finally spoke, quietly, but with an edge of consternation.   
  
America bristled, securing his hold on the pack and striding toward the plane. “His name is England, and yeah, I am.”   
  
Canada placed his hand firmly on the clasp that opened the cockpit. “America, you shouldn’t go! I’m serious this time…”  
  
“I’m going, Canada! C’mon, move so I can get in my plane, okay?” America reached the plane and gestured.  
  
“No.”   
  
“Damn, what’s your problem?” America raised his voice. “I’m going, all right? If you’re worried about Kumajirou, I promise I’ll be able to help you fi--- “  
  
“What’s happening to you, America?” Canada interrupted, sounding both angry and panicked.   
  
He blinked. “What do you mean?”  
  
Canada puffed himself up and stood up as straight as he could manage. “Ever since you’ve started hanging out with this England, you’ve been acting completely different. It’s not like you at all!”   
  
America laughed nervously. “Hey man, seriously? That’s ridiculous…”  
  
“No, it’s not!” Canada exclaimed. “I’ve known you my entire life. Suddenly you’re not following the rules, you’re sneaking off on your own, and you’re deviating from missions. Your entire life, you’ve thought pirates were bad. Believe me, I know. I was usually the pirate, eh.”  
  
“Canada that’s—“  
  
“Shut up! And now that you’re in love with one, you’re willing to continually risk your position and your job and break the rules and---- “  
  
“Me and England’s relationship has nothing to do with this!” America interrupted, shouting.  
  
Canada gripped the clasp on the cockpit tighter, his expression steely. “It has  _everything_  to do with this.”   
  
“Just shut up and let me go,” America snapped. “Look, everything is fine. General Wang cleared me last time, and the colonel was okay with it the time before. Nothing to worry about…”   
  
He did not move. “Dammit! You’ve gotten away with everything before now. You’re the favorite, so of course they’re going to let you have a few freebies.”   
  
America just shrugged. “Heroes have to do what they---“  
  
“But what happens when your luck runs out?” Canada cut in. “When they can’t keep making excuses for you…” He looked down, clenching his eyes shut. “America, I’m scared! Shit! Just… “  
  
America drew himself up to full height, his lips in a firm thin line and his eyebrows drawn downward. “Just… what?”  
  
Canada didn’t reply, instead just shaking his head.  
  
“Keep letting people die, is that it?” America queried. “Should I just stop seeing England because he’s a pirate, never mind the fact that he’s--- he’s a good friend and a great ally? Should I not deviate from a mission to save people’s lives?” He jutted his chin out proudly and pointed to himself. “Because dammit, I’m a hero!” He touched Canada’s hand, pleading him silently to remove it from the cockpit. “And sometimes heroes have to take matters into their own hands.”  
  
“You didn’t---“  
  
“I’ve learned that,” America interrupted, a soft smile on his face. “Now c’mon…”  
  
Canada’s eyes softened for a moment, but then he shook his head vehemently. “No! I’m going to be assertive. I know I’m in the right here, America! Just… what would happen if the military found out that you were leaving the base to spend time with pirates--- with the Kosmider around, who knows--- god America, it’s just… you might not always be so lucky.“  
  
“Well France leaves all the time…”  
  
“There’s a reason why France is still a private, eh!” Canada reasoned, his voice rising. “What you’re doing is different. Notice that France hasn’t been leaving recently? Not with the Kosmider out there. You’re a captain, and you can even be so much more, like grandpa!”  
  
America looked taken aback for a second before regaining his composure. His eyes flashed angrily. “Fuck you. Grandpa would want me to do what I thought was right.” He ran his fingers across the fob watch at his belt. “Don’t bring him into this.” His voice was hard, flinty and firm. He tightened his grip on Canada’s hand, wrenching it off the cockpit and shoving him away. “I’m leaving, whether you like it or not.”  
  
Canada watched helplessly as his cousin stepped into the cockpit. He deflated, his head dropping once more and his wavy hair shadowing his face. “Good luck then…” he said under his breath, but America couldn’t hear him, because he’d already shut himself into the plane and begun his takeoff preparation. 

* * *

  
  
England was absolutely not fretting over preparing for his date with America. He hadn’t taken a very lengthy hot bath, heated by the steam engines below. He had certainly not changed into a freshly pressed shirt and breeches, both being nicer than the standard clothing he wore on a day to day basis. His normal shirt didn’t have a cravat after all. It was most unusual for him to wear a maroon vest under his coat and over his shirt, but it’s not that he was going out of his way to do this, of course.   
  
Nor was the coat he’d decided to wear smarter and more formal than his normal one; its deep navy falling in folds at his knees and the silver accents on it gleaming. He hadn’t shined his boots to their best, and most importantly, he was absolutely and positively not wearing cologne.   
  
Oh who was be bloody kidding.   
  
England closed his eyes and sighed as he stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, pressing the lapels of his jacket absently. The clothing was befitting of a date, he felt. But at the same time it wasn’t so fancy that America would find it terribly obvious that he was expecting this to  _be_  a date. This was right perfect, he thought. It was safe.  
  
“Although perhaps I should reconsider the cologne,” he murmured under his breath.   
  
His hat wouldn’t match, which he was a bit miffed about because, as always, he’d been unable to get his hair to lie down flat.   
  
England puffed up his chest, attempting to muster a stature that portrayed confidence. He was as ready for this night as he thought he’d ever be. His heart jammed in his throat when he thought about it, and his stomach fluttered when he imagined America greeting him with a smile, or so he hoped. And his cheeks flushed pink at the mere idea that he was potentially going out for an evening date with one very attractive, albeit very silly, aviator.   
  
What would it be like to hold him in his arms again? To feel his warm body firm against his and perhaps, as the moon shone overhead, his lips pressed to England’s; a hand in the hair, a stroke on the cheek, a caress, who knew? It was all very unlikely though, of course. It was only reasonable that he remind himself of that.  
  
England felt his body heating up, and he clenched his eyes shut and breathed deeply in attempt to stop it. So distracted was he that he didn’t notice that someone had entered the room until they spoke.  
  
“Ah, England?” It was Spain. Well thank god. Spain was less obnoxious than most.   
  
England darted around, eyes wide and startled. “What is it?” he hissed.   
  
Spain laughed lightly, scratching his cheek as he did so. “I just talked to Switzerland on deck. He has a message that he wants me to relay.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
He frowned. “You’re not gonna like it though…” 

* * *

  
  
Cobblestone streets greeted him when America stepped from the landing pad, home to several other planes, into the town that housed the Világfa Inn and Pub. It was just the sort of seaside village that this area, the mid-western part of Habicht, was famous for. It was lit by golden steam lamps as early evening descended, and it was inexplicably homey and warm. Fishermen’s boats rocked in the gentle surf and small homes alternated with businesses along the cobbled street. America had expected a grittier area, not a port village that really didn’t look that seedy at all.   
  
The loud piano music caught America’s attention first; a classical waltz. He glanced toward the building it was emanating from and noticed the hanging sign- Világfa Inn and Pub.   
  
He pushed the wooden door open.   
  
It was much louder in the pub. Fishermen having finished their work for the day gathered around tables to drink and talk, and there was dancing in one corner of the room, the one by the piano. At the piano sat a rather smart looking man, one who had the bearing of someone far wealthier than the average villager.   
  
America glanced at his fob watch. It was five p.m. Perfect. He sauntered over to the bar, where a chestnut haired woman was pouring drinks.   
  
“Can I help you, mister?” she inquired as he approached.  
  
America smiled. “Hey! I’m wanting to get a room for the night.” He adjusted the pack on his back.   
  
She smiled and leaned over the bar top. “Sure thing! It’s rare we get military here…”  
  
America glanced around. There were merchants, some obviously not from the area, as well as the fishermen and one man that America thought may be a pirate, but there were indeed, no other militia.  _Not surprising_ , he thought.  _This village probably doesn’t get much of anything that local law enforcement can’t take care of._    
  
“Ah yeah well… I’m here to meet someone,” America explained. “Hey, can I get the room now? I need to do some stuff before they get here.”  
  
She chuckled. “Of course. By the way, I’m Hungary Héderváry. Please just call me Hungary! Both bartender and innkeeper, at your service.” She jokingly saluted, her smile genial. “That man over there,” she pointed to the piano, “is Austria. He’s my husband, so you can ask him any questions if you can’t find me!”  
  
America nodded. “Awesome! Thanks. So you’re Hungary…” She was an attractive young woman, but like Belgium she looked tough as well.   
  
“That’s me. Have you heard of me?”   
  
“Yeah, the guy I’m meeting with told me your name,” he answered. “How much for the room?”  
  
“Fifty shillings a night, dear.”   
  
America reached in his pants pocket and pulled out a wallet, counting fifty shillings and handing them to the woman across the bar.   
  
She reached under the bar and grabbed a brass key, tossing it to America. “Second floor, room D.”  
  
“Thanks!”  
  
“No problem.” She paused to pour a glass of beer and slide it down the bar to a waiting customer. “Say, you’re the one meeting with Kirkland, right?”   
  
America’s cheeks pinked. “Y-yeah! How did you know?”   
  
Hungary shrugged, the poofy short sleeves of her dress moving with her shoulders. “He radioed me and told me to keep a watch for you. He mentioned that you were a military man. Used to be, this place was  _the_  pub for pirates. That was back when my parents and grandparents owned it. But… there aren’t many pirates anymore, so we don’t get them as often.”  
  
“But England still comes?”  
  
“The previous captain of the Taliesin used to come here. I remember seeing England when he was only a little kid. I was a bit older, and he’d hang around me because all the adults were drinking. So yeah, he still comes.”  
  
America’s curiosity was piqued. This woman knew about the previous captain? Maybe she could shed some light on the enigma that was England’s past. He kind of… really wanted to know. “What happened to that captain?” America asked, blunt and to the point.  
  
Hungary’s eyes widened for a moment before she shook her head. “I have no idea. Seven years ago, England became the captain. I guess he died, but Kirkland won’t talk. What’s weird is that all of his crew vanished as well, but they were pretty old, so maybe they just… died with the captain.”  
  
“And left England the only survivor?”  
  
She frowned. “It’s possible.”   
  
America laughed nervously. “W-well thanks! I’ll go upstairs then. Gotta get ready!”  
  
“Ah, wait!” Hungary called as he began to walk away.  
  
America turned half around. “Huh?”  
  
“I’m glad England’s finally gotten himself a date!” she proclaimed, and there was something a bit  _too_  happy about her expression. “Poor guy needs one, and you’re quite the looker, so good on him!”   
  
America's face bloomed scarlet. “H-hey how did you know… and it’s…”   
  
“It was pretty obvious, from the way he was talking on the radio. Anyway, see you in about an hour?”   
  
America nodded, turning back around. “Y-yeah.”   
  
He darted up the stairs, finding his room and opening it with the brass key. There was one bed, a steam powered bath, and a water closet.   
  
He threw his pack on the bed, deciding that a good bath sounded really awesome after about eleven hours of flying. His argument with Canada, far more intense than their usual small fights, had weighed heavily on his mind for part of the plane trip. But now, all he could think about was England… 

* * *

  
  
Lithuania’s breath came in short gasps, becoming more winded by the moment. He was running, he was running so fast and trying not to clench his eyes shut in fear, lest he trip on the cobblestone streets.   
  
Behind him, coming up fast, he heard the clatter of Mary Jane shoes. Belarus chased him with fervor, her eyes bright and determined. Eventually she would catch up, he knew it.  
  
He must have been found out. Russia must have discovered that he was leaking information, and he’d sent Belarus, his strongest fighter, to take care of him.   
  
What scared Lithuania most wasn’t that Belarus might catch him. It wasn’t even the thought of what she might do to him. Belarus had always held disdain for Lithuania, after all.  
  
What terrified him most was that Russia might know to whom Lithuania had told his secrets.   
  
 _Poland…_    
  
His merchant ship, the Krakus, wouldn’t survive even the most minimal of Kosmider attacks.   
  
The streets were empty. In this sleepy village, by this time of evening, it appeared that almost everyone was inside somewhere.   
  
He spotted a pub ahead, its sign swinging in the light breeze. He could attempt to run inside, but if Belarus followed him, who knew what she would do?   
  
Lithuania weighed his options, his mind growing more frantic as Belarus loomed closer, her deep black skirt billowing behind her as she ran.   
  
And then, he tripped; the uneven cobbles, one being particularly higher than the others, catching his unsuspecting feet.   
  
As he fell he noticed a dagger in Belarus’s hand.  
  
But Lithuania did not hit the ground.  
  
Instead an arm was slung roughly under him, leather clad, and most definitely not Belarus’s. He gasped, the impact having almost knocked the wind out of him.  
  
“Whoa there, you okay buddy?” a male voice inquired, and Lithuania looked up at his savior.   
  
He knew immediately who it was.   
  
The bright blue eyes framed by spectacles, the aviation bomber jacket, the golden blond hair.   
  
Lithuania hadn’t forgotten the face in the photograph. “Captain Jones?” he said, unthinkingly.   
  
America blinked, confused. “Yeah how did you know my--- never mind that, what about her?”  
  
He lifted Lithuania to his feet, standing in front of him, ready to defend against Belarus.  
  
But she was already out of sight, the sound of her shoes no longer audible. “Where did she--- “  
  
“She must have turned a corner or something,” Lithuania interrupted, still trying to catch his breath.   
  
America gritted his teeth. “But she looked like she was going to attack you! A hero can’t just let someone get away with that…”  
  
He shook his head. “She’ll be long gone by the time we can catch her.”   
  
Lithuania was bent over now, hands on his knees.   
  
America gave him a look of concern. “Hey, come inside the pub. You need to sit down…”  
  
“No I shouldn’t---“  
  
But America had grabbed his arm, dragging him inside the Világfa.  
  
It was only in the bright light of the pub that America was able to discern the clothing that the man he’d rescued was wearing. He’d recognized the woman that was chasing him immediately, that long silver hair unmistakable. She was the one who had battled Prussia.   
  
But this man; he could tell now that he was wearing a black uniform, its collar high and far too much like the upper half of the swordswoman’s dress.  
  
“What’s your name?” America queried, facing the young man.   
  
He looked down to the side, his hands clenched together. “It’s Lithuania, sir. Lithuania Lorinaitis.”  
  
He remembered that name; a vague memory of it from the list England had proffered him. America checked his watch. Ten ‘til six.   
  
England was supposed to be here soon.  
  
But he had a Kosmider member right here in his grip, dropped right in his lap. An officer even! He’d gone outside to get a breath of fresh air and come back with this.  
  
America glared at Lithuania, and he could have sworn that the officer looked back at him with something akin to regret. “Come upstairs with me now,” America demanded, and shockingly, Lithuania did not fight as he pulled him up the staircase.   
  
He’d come back down for England; maybe bring him up to the room. It wouldn’t be the awesome date he’d hoped for, but at least he’d be able to see him.


	26. The Captured Kosmider

America closed the inn room door behind him, locking it with the large brass key and never once loosening his grip on Lithuania in the process. It was hardly necessary though, as Lithuania did not try to pull away. Instead his arm was lax and unresisting in America’s hold.   
  
Pressing his back to the door, America bit his lip and frowned. “You’re part of the Kosmider.”  
  
Lithuania flinched. “I’m not--- well I am but…”   
  
“On authority of the World Military, I hereby forbid you to leave this room,” America recited.   
  
He nodded. “I won’t leave.”  
  
At this, America blinked in confusion. Ever since he’d told the man to come with him, he hadn’t fought it once. If anything, he sounded resigned and even… slightly apologetic. Then again, he had been chased by another member of the Kosmider, so perhaps…  
  
He recalled England’s words; about how just because a person was a part of the Kosmider, didn’t mean it was something they wanted to do.   
  
He loosened his grip on Lithuania’s arm, but didn’t let go entirely. “How did you know my name?”   
  
Lithuania’s green eyes widened, and he glanced down to his feet for a moment before speaking. “Russia, the leader of the Kosmider, told me. H-he showed me your photo. America is your first name, right?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s my name.” He paused. “Why does he have a picture of ME?”   
  
Lithuania leveled him a look, straight in the eyes. “Because he sees you as a threat.”   
  
A part of America leapt inwardly at this. If Russia did see him as a threat, then it must be because he was doing a pretty damn good job of being a hero! “Is it because of my… position?” he asked.  
  
“Russia knows about your position in the military, but I think that might be only part of why he’s after you…”  
  
“He’s after me?”  
  
Lithuania frowned, rueful. “He sees you as a link between the military and the pirates. Look…” he sighed, “I’ll tell you everything, all right? I think I’ve been found out anyway.”  
  
America cocked his head. “Found out, huh? About what? Is that why you were being chased…”   
  
He nodded. “The truth is, that… I’ve been relaying the Kosmider’s secrets to someone. I guess they discovered that.”   
  
America gasped, his blue eyes large. “You’re the merchant’s contact?”   
  
Lithuania merely replied, “Yes.”   
  
Without thinking, America dropped Lithuania’s arm from his grasp.   
  


* * *

  
  
If it were possible, England would have ripped through the Kosmider fleet right then, right there.   
  
He could imagine certain members of his crew laughing at him for it, but he didn’t bloody care. He was incensed.  
  
Because the Kosmider fleet was between him and the land, and thus, between him and America. It was floating high above, hidden in the clouds over the small Habicht village. Oh he would have loved to have taken out the six, seven zeppelins right then and there. But that was a death wish, being that they were only one ship. In addition, the town below would have been at great risk if there was a fiery melee in the skies above.   
  
But blast it all to hell, he had been looking forward to this meeting since it had been set, and it was finally a chance for him to… perhaps… well maybe…  
  
“I should radio Hungary,” he muttered to himself. He needed to let America know that he wasn’t going to be there, but that he would very much appreciate if he would radio him as soon as possible. He also, and most importantly, needed to make sure the idiot was all right. Knowing him, if he’d gotten there after the Kosmider had arrived, he would have tried to take them out in his one small plane. Reckless git, he was.   
  
A small smile crept onto his lips, but then he frowned again, folding his arms across his neatly pressed jacket, vest, and shirt.  
  
 _It figures my luck would be this rotten..._    
  
He gestured rudely at the sky, despite the fact that he was miles away from where the Kosmider was anchored, and turned around, his coat flapping in the breeze as he stormed down to his room and to his radio.  
  


* * *

  
  
America was sitting across the bed from him now, a pillow in his lap. He idly picked at the pillowcase fabric from time to time. Lithuania, for his part, was only starting to loosen up, the stiffness and alertness he’d engaged in upon first entering the room finally ebbing. America was not going to harm him. He had come with him willingly, thinking that it was better to be with Captain Jones than to go back out and risk encountering Belarus. Now, he was actually beginning to feel at ease.  
  
Almost an hour before, Hungary, the innkeeper and barmaid, had come in and informed America, with much regret, that the person he’d been planning to meet up with, England, was not going to be able to come. When she’d elaborated that a Kosmider fleet was in the sky, blocking his landing, America had shot one flinty glare at Lithuania, which caused guilt to pool in his stomach. But outside of that? He’d been all right.   
  
America looked just like he had in the photograph, the biggest difference being that he was not in his military uniform. He had been wearing his bomber jacket, since removed, when he met him outside, but under that, his clothing was different. He wore a smart pair of light brown pants, a deep blue vest with a puff tie tucked into it, and a crisp white dress shirt. Lithuania thought that he looked rather like he was dressed for a date.  
  
And from what he’d picked up from Hungary’s conversation with him, that’s  _exactly_  what it had been. No wonder America wasn’t happy about the Kosmider standing between him and England (who Lithuania vaguely recalled hearing from Russia, was the captain of the Taliesin pirates).   
  
If Russia really had found out about him spilling secrets to Poland, there was no reason for him not to throw caution to the wind and explain all he could to America. Russia was targeting him, after all. As such, in the past hour, he’d given America as much new information as he could manage. It wasn’t enough to take down the Kosmider, because in truth there were many things even he did not know. But he offered what he could.   
  
“Sorry about your date,” Lithuania said.  
  
America shrugged. “You’ve said that already. It’s not your fault, don’t worry about it.”  
  
“You really don’t think it’s my fault?”   
  
America sighed, tossing the pillow aside and smiling. “Nah, I mean… you’re well, you’re here helping me out, right?”   
  
Lithuania nodded, and he shut his eyes for a moment, steeling himself to ask a question he’d been wondering all along. “Y-you’re going to turn me in, aren’t you? I couldn’t really blame you…”  
  
“No!” America exclaimed with a surprising amount of vigor. “I mean I… made a promise, that I wouldn’t let you come to any harm. When England gave me the list of Kosmider officers, it was with that stipulation. I didn’t know which one was the spy at the time, but… that’s what I agreed to. I can’t control what the military would do with you.”  
  
“Oh…”   
  
Poland had made anyone he gave the information to promise that, he was sure of it.   
  
America glanced away, staring at the stark white wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “Honestly? I don’t really know what to think here. I get it, you seem like a nice guy and you obviously don’t like working for Russia. You’ve given me a lot of great information on the Kosmider too in the past hour, and it seems pretty reliable.”  
  
“It’s all true, I promise.”  
  
He nodded. “I’m a hero, you know? All my life, becoming a hero has been… so damn important to me. And here I am, encountered with a top officer of the Kosmider… and damn, I hate the Kosmider so much. They’ve killed so many people, and I’ve seen it happen, and they almost killed someone I care about a lot.”  
  
Lithuania looked down, his eyes focused on his lap. “It’s true, of course. I can’t make any excuses for what the Kosmider did. I can’t make any excuses for some of the things I’ve done, even.”   
  
“I get it,” America began again. “I get that you’re helping us out, giving us information and everything. But you’re still Kosmider, and I just don’t understand why you’d be part of that if you didn’t believe in it. So really, you seem nice, but…” He shook his head. “I’m not going to turn you in, but I don’t exactly feel like I should be letting you  _go_.”  
  
Lithuania shifted, pulling at the silver corded cuffs of his uniform. “When I saw your photograph, I envied you. You looked so happy and carefree and… well I’ve always been a bit of a worrywart, so I can’t really say I was ever carefree. But I did used to be happy, and… I had dreams too.”   
  
“What kind of dreams?” America queried, surprise evident in his tone.   
  
“My dreams aren’t anything like Russia’s,” Lithuania explained.   
  
“Total slaughter and annihilation? I’d hope that’s not your dream,” America countered.  
  
“Russia doesn’t see it like that,” he continued. “For Russia, he’s trying to create a world where everyone has a place, everyone has a role. No one is left out.”  
  
America’s eyes flashed. “Well that sounds nice and all, but I don’t think murdering innocent people is the best way to go about it!”   
  
Lithuania frowned and bit his lip. “Of course not. He’s… got it all wrong. He wants this world, but he wants it under  _his_  terms, under  _his_  rules. Everyone has a role, but he is the one who dictates what those roles are. That’s why… if anyone is in the way…”  
  
“Why is he going after the sky?” America’s lips were in a firm line, and his teeth were pressed together in anger.   
  
“If he controls the sky, he controls the world,” Lithuania said. “People still travel by sea, and people still travel by land, of course. But if you own the sky? You’re above all of that.”  
  
“The sky is at the top of the world,” America added, his voice quiet.  
  
“Exactly.” Lithuania paused. He unbuttoned the top of his coat, because to be honest, the room was starting to feel a bit stuffy. “It might be hard to believe, but in the Kosmider, everyone is treated well. As long as we do our job, we’re fed and clothed for free, and we always have a warm place to stay. And Russia has promised a substantial salary to anyone who stays in the Kosmider for at least a year. That’s… why so many of us joined.”  
  
“Well that’s great and all,” America said, “but why the hell, even for free stuff, would you join the Kosmider? It’s evil!”  
  
Lithuania pressed his fingers to his forehead and shook his head. “It’s not as if Russia lied completely, but he most certainly did not tell the whole truth when he recruited us. There are definitely people that joined the Kosmider with full knowledge of what it was, but a lot of us… were fooled. He went after people he knew needed a place in the world, because in a way, that made us all very vulnerable and naïve.”   
  
Lithuania watched as America slid off the bed and stood up. He half thought that the other man was done listening, but in fact, all he did was unbutton his vest and slide it off, removing his tie as well. “It’s kinda hot in here. I’m gonna open the window…”  
  
“I thought it was warm as well, so thank you,” Lithuania replied.  
  
“I’m not doing it for you,” America retorted, pushing the window open. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and sat back down on the bed. “Now what in the hell could Russia tell anyone that would make them think the Kosmider is okay?”  
  
“It’s… well it won’t make much sense if I don’t explain a bit about myself,” Lithuania said with a sigh.   
  
“I have time, so go for it.” America unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Following his lead, Lithuania slipped his black uniform jacket off, revealing a gray dress shirt. That was much better.   
  
“I never really knew my parents. No one in the village quite knew where I came from either. I just… appeared one day, on the door step of the village’s tavern,” Lithuania began. “I… was in a way, raised by the village I lived in. There wasn’t much raising going on though. I did everything by myself, unless it was something that it was impossible for a child to do.”  
  
America leaned forward, obviously interested. There was a hint of what might be sympathy in his eyes. “I say myself, but I wasn’t actually alone. I always lived with another person, my very best friend and… my…” He flushed pink. “Well, it’s the merchant, of course. His name is Poland.”  
  
America remained silent. “We did everything together. The first time we met was when I was around four. It’s the first very vivid memory that I have… from then on, actually, I can remember everything well. He lived in a little house on the edge of the village, which had been owned by his family. People offered to take him in, but he refused. He asked me to live with him though, and I remember the first thing he said to me; ‘let’s play house!’” Lithuania chuckled, and America cracked a smile as well.  
  
“There are poor industrial villages all over Medved, right?” America asked.   
  
“There are a lot, but we actually lived in an agricultural town. The crops were particularly bad throughout most of our childhood, but that didn’t stop Poland and I from volunteering our help in the fields as much as possible.” He smiled softly. “By volunteering, it was more, ‘we’ll help you if you give us a free meal.’ Not many people would turn down two able-bodied young men.”   
  
America was frowning now, and there was no mistaking the moroseness in his expression. “Sounds like a tough life…”  
  
“It was tough, but we made do,” Lithuania replied. “Don’t pity us.” He smiled, bright and nostalgic. “I wouldn’t trade those years growing up with Poland… for the world.”   
  
“He’s pretty important to you, huh?”  
  
“More important than anything else,” Lithuania answered, without hesitation. “But Poland, he always had bigger dreams than me. I was content to live the rest of my life in the village, but not Poland. He wanted out. He… had this desire to travel the whole world. His personality was just too big for one little village.” Lithuania shook his head.   
  
America was clearly entranced now, hanging from every word of Lithuania’s story. “So what happened?”  
  
“I told him that I didn’t mind traveling with him, because honestly… I didn’t. But that I wanted to be able to support myself first. It wasn’t fair to rely on him. I was working at our village’s feed store, and I was even about to receive a promotion!” he exclaimed. “I agreed to join Poland when I thought I’d saved up enough money, and we’d skysail the world together…”  
  
“That sounds… nice,” America murmured.   
  
“What?”  
  
“The sailing the world with… never mind, just go on.”   
  
Lithuania couldn’t help but notice that America’s cheeks were tinged with a light pink blush.   
  
“Poland bought a merchant ship. He’d been saving up for years, and he found an amazing deal on a craggy old ship. And he’s a pretty charismatic guy, so he hit it off well as a merchant.” Lithuania’s voice dropped, and his nostalgic smile vanished. “Two years after he left… I thought… I was ready to join him… but…”  
  
America was resting his chin on his hands now, as if enraptured by a bedtime story. When he noticed Lithuania’s mood change, his blue eyes grew large and he dropped his hands. “But…?”  
  
“The weather that season, the season I was going to leave during, was awful. The crops weren’t yielding and the villagers were hungry and… one night when a storm hit…” He shook his head. “You can guess what happened. Everything was so dry, after all. All but three of the villagers managed to evacuate, but… we couldn’t save most of the buildings, and… the feed store I worked at was gone, as was Poland’s house.”   
  
“That’s… terrible,” America said, frowning. “But you still had your money, right?”  
  
“No, it was at Poland’s house. I was at the feed store when the storm hit, and I was busy trying to help the evacuation when the fire was going on.”  
  
“You left your money behind to help people?” America raised his eyebrows. “That’s pretty heroic!”  
  
“It’s not heroic,” Lithuania countered. A small smile crossed his lips. “It’s just right.”   
  
“Y-yeah… I guess you’re right.”  
  
Lithuania glanced warmly at America, for he couldn’t help but find comfort in his presence. “So that’s where I was. Government help was slow to come, because our village was extremely rural, and there had been similar fires all over southern Medved. I was helping to rebuild, and I’d contacted Poland. He wanted to pick me up, no matter how much I argued that I wanted to be able to carry my own weight. Eventually I relented, with the promise that I’d do as much work on the merchant ship as he did. Partners. It… actually sounded really nice.”   
  
“Yeah!” America said. “So… Russia.”   
  
“Russia showed up in the village, and he caught my eye right away. He was tall and intimidating looking at first, but… I thought he had a kind face,” Lithuania explained. “He was looking for able bodied young men and women, so he noticed me as quickly as I’d noticed him.”  
  
“What did he tell you?”  
  
“He told me about a place, a place that he was heading up, with free room and food and clothing and an enormous lump sum if you completed a tenure of a year, like I said,” Lithuania elucidated. “But what he said it was? I guess that’s what’s most important. He promised that we would be helping to save Medved, and the world… that our mission was to make sure that no one was without a job, a home, anything like that. We were a militia corp to save the world, to create a new world, even.”   
  
America pounded his hand on the bed, furious. “Fucking hell, he makes it sound like some kind of  _charity_.”  
  
Lithuania shrugged. “Even then, in retrospect, I was an idiot to fall for it. But my world had just been… my home had been destroyed, and I wanted more than anything to travel with Poland… but I didn’t feel like I could just… well it reminded me of my promise to come on board with enough money to support myself.” His eyes were misting up, just barely. He rubbed the balls of his hands across them. “One year in the Kosmider, and I’d have the money to travel with Poland for as long as I wanted to.”   
  
“That bastard. And you get there, and he puts you on a zeppelin with a mission to  _kill_?” America’s eyes flashed, brilliant blue and bright with anger.   
  
“Russia doesn’t see the wrong in what he did,” Lithuania said. “I don’t even think he believes he was being that deceitful.”  
  
“But he was.”  
  
“Of course he was. All Russia had to do though,” Lithuania shifted, leaning back against the headboard, “was find a story, find many stories; the kind of stories that would lead him to people who would be foolish enough to do what I did and accept a helping hand from him.”  
  
America looked noticeably uncomfortable, and Lithuania wasn’t sure if it was because of the story or something else. “Once you found out what it was, why didn’t you leave?”  
  
He was silent for a moment, before he replied, “If I go, they’ll just replace me with someone else. Maybe this someone else will actually like what they’re doing, maybe they’ll have less remorse, who knows. Or maybe he’ll recruit someone new like me, and I don’t want anyone else to go through what I’ve gone through. Is it worth it to leave and possibly be killed, just to have your death be in vain?”  
  
“Well but a hero wouldn’t---“  
  
“You seem like a very kind person, America,” Lithuania interrupted. “But in being a ‘hero’ and leaving, I’ll be leaving so many others like me behind. I stay, because I can find out more information and tell Poland. I stay, because maybe if I know it’s me in my position, instead of someone else, that perhaps a few lives can be saved that wouldn’t be spared otherwise,” he finished, his voice firm and unwavering.   
  
America stared a moment, before nodding resolutely. “I-I understand,” he said. Then he looked away, his expression distant. “Hey Lithuania, what is your dream then… outside of being with Poland, of course.”   
  
Lithuania smiled, and he dared to reach forward and place a hand on America’s shoulder. America did not push him away. “I dream of a world where there’s no need for heroes…”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
Lithuania chuckled. “Because everyone tries their best to do what’s right.”  
  
“So like, everyone is a hero then?” America clarified.  
  
“That’s one way you could put it,” Lithuania agreed.  
  
“But… some heroes are still cooler and more heroic than others, right?” America’s expression was eager.   
  
He shifted, but kept his hand on America’s shoulder. “Sure, why not.”   
  
When America reached up his own hand, clasping it on top of Lithuania’s, they both smiled.  
  
After a few moments, America’s expression turned serious, although he did not let of Lithuania’s hand. “Please tell me, Lithuania… if there’s anything I can do to help you.”  
  
“What… that’s…”  
  
America grinned again. “You deserve to be protected. And plus, I’m sure Poland is still waiting for when you two can travel together.”


	27. Run

“America I…” Lithuania bit his lip. “I can’t ask you for help. You’ve helped enough in letting me tell you all this information.”  
  
America frowned. He stared resolutely at the other man. “Look, I’ve got… a friend. England, you know? He can take you aboard his ship. I know he will. I know that you don’t feel like you can leave the Kosmider, but if you go back and they have found you out…” he finished his sentence with a shudder.  
  
There was a tick of a clock, and America glanced over to the far wall. Nine ‘o’ clock. He wondered if he could radio England now. He’d definitely still be awake…   
  
“But Poland…”  
  
“He can take Poland too! I mean he already knows him, so I’m sure it will be fine,” America added. “Just get in my plane with me, and I’ll take you to England’s ship. Then you can radio Poland and pick him up wherever he is.”   
  
Lithuania shifted and pulled out of America’s hold. He turned his face and closed his eyes, and America could tell that he was debating.  
  
“If…” he spoke after several moments, “it’s true that I’ve been found out, I’ll do this.”  
  
“And if not?”  
  
“If I’m mistaken and Russia doesn’t know what I’ve been doing,” he sighed, “I’ve got to go back to the Kosmider.”   
  
America pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He wanted to tell Lithuania not to, that he should come with him no matter what he found out, but he knew that he wouldn’t listen. At least, not after what he’d told him before about why he stayed with the Kosmider. “How do you plan on finding out if you’re safe? What if you go back and Russia captures you before you can escape?”   
  
Lithuania shook his head. “If I can use Hungary’s radio, I’ll use it to contact Estonia. He’s a Kosmider member, and he’s usually in charge of manning radio contact.”  
  
“So he’s on your side?”  
  
“Yes. I… told him recently what I was up to, and he’s pretty good at tracking and masking radio signals,” Lithuania explained. “He can tap into just about anything.”   
  
America cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds pretty useful. You could use that against Russia, right?”  
  
“Sure, we could, but Russia doesn’t trust Estonia as much as he does me, so he’s almost always got someone breathing down his neck while he’s working,” Lithuania answered with a sigh.   
  
America frowned. “But what about Belarus?”  
  
“Russia will keep a hawk’s eye on her if he knows that she tried to chase me down,” Lithuania said. “I mean, if he thinks I’m innocent, that is. He… favors me a lot.”  
  
America raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to send you back. I feel like kind of a crappy hero just… letting you go back into danger.” He exhaled. “But I guess you have your own heroics to perform, huh?”  
  
Lithuania chuckled lightly. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly but… yes, I need to go back if I can.”  
  
Nodding, America pushed himself off the bed and stood up. “All right, let’s go use that radio then.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“Thanks for loaning me your jacket,” Lithuania said. He and America were sitting across from each other at one of the pub’s rustic wooden tables. America traced circles in the wood, his lips forming a pout.  
  
“No problem. Even with your jacket off, it’s obvious you’re wearing a uniform… didn’t want anyone to recognize you as Kosmider,” America answered. He, by now, had stripped down to just his dress shirt and pants.   
  
Lithuania swished the liquid in the glass he held, frowning deeply. “Well it’s good that Estonia says it’s clear.”  
  
America bit his lip, resting his elbow on the table. “Y-yeah… I guess so.”  
  
They’d come downstairs to use the radio, and Lithuania had simply asked Estonia “is it safe for me to return?” It was non-descript and easily explainable if someone asked. America thought that they must have discussed this potential situation before.   
  
“This Estonia guy knows, huh?” America leaned across the table and whispered. Lithuania merely nodded. “He’s trustworthy?”  
  
“Extremely.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
The silence that fell between the two was awkward, full of unspoken words and anxiety.  _Please don’t leave_ , America wanted to say.  _I don’t want to go back_ , on the tip of Lithuania’s tongue.  
  
Austria played the piano, a melodic ballad as the remaining patrons, their number dwindling smaller, bustled about the Világfa. America finished off the last of his mug of ale, while Lithuania continued to sip his slowly.   
  
“Stay the night here?” America offered, breaking the silence. “Just… one night away from the Kosmider. It’s the least you deserve.”  
  
Lithuania’s green eyes widened. “That’s very nice of you, America but… the sooner I return, the less suspicious he’ll be.”   
  
America’s brow furrowed. Quickly, he reached across the table and gripped Lithuania’s upper arms in his hands. “I just want to know that you’re safe,” he proclaimed with conviction. “What if Estonia was forced to say that or something?”  
  
Lithuania inhaled sharply, closing his eyes in thought for a moment before replying, “The Világfa will receive a radio then, which will be relayed to you. ‘I’m sorry I forgot to pay my tab,’ means safe. ‘Did I pay my tab?’ means unsafe.”   
  
He whispered the words, leaning forward toward America’s ear, but in a manner that resembled a natural movement, as opposed to something intentional and indiscreet.   
  
“If you’re unsafe, I’m going to rescue you, just so you know! Hero’s honor,” America said.   
  
Lithuania shook his head. “Don’t risk your life for me. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. If I’m unsafe though, that means  _Poland_  is.  _That’s_  who you need to help.”   
  
America narrowed his eyes. “No way. You’re getting rescued even if it means I have to face Russia himself,” his voice had the intonation of a shout, despite it being hushed. “I know you want a world without heroes or whatever, Lithuania but…” He clenched his eyes. “This isn’t that world, okay? There are really awful people and there are good people and… okay maybe there are even a few people who aren’t bad or good, really.”  
  
“America…”  
  
“So let ME be a hero, okay?” he continued. “It’s what I want to be, all right?”  
  
Lithuania glanced down, his eyes half lidded. He stared at his hands in his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I see why Russia was so threatened by you. There really is no stopping you, is there?”  
  
America’s mouth cracked into a grin at this. “Hell no there’s not.”   
  
Lithuania stood up, pushing the chair in behind him and walking over to America. He slid out of the bomber jacket and handed it over. “I hope that, when this is all over, we can be friends.”  
  
America took the jacket in his hands and folded it across one arm. “Can’t we be friends already?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.  
  
Lithuania's cheeks flushed. “I’d like that very much.”  
  
Standing up, America reached up and patted Lithuania’s shoulder. “Awesome. I’ll see you later then. Promise!”  
  
Lithuania smiled, wide and true. “I’ll see you as well, America.”   
  
And he turned around and walked away, exiting the pub and leaving the door swinging in the late night breeze.   
  
America didn’t go to sleep that night until Hungary received a radio, informing him in their decided code that Lithuania was safe.  
  


* * *

  
  
Piloting on less than eight hours of sleep was something that America normally didn’t like to do, but despite only getting about five, he felt awake and ready to take on the world when he stepped up into his plane the next morning.  
  
Lithuania was safe. He had new information on the Kosmider. The military (and even the general!) would be ecstatic. There were specs and names and locations and he even knew a lot more about Russia himself now.  
  
He had  _not_  been able to tell him where the Kosmider’s largest citadel was. He confirmed that Russia considered his ‘base’ to be his own personal zeppelin, but informed America that there was somewhere else, an enormous building that he used as a zeppelin factory. “I can tell you that it’s snowy there, cold as ice and just as bitter. The building is enormous, but it’s white and blends in with the snow almost perfectly. It’s… somewhere in Northern Medved, but Russia doesn’t allow us to know the location, not even me. The zeppelin pilots do, but everyone else has to leave the cockpit when we get close.”   
  
That was a start, at least.   
  
But there were two other strongholds, scattered throughout Medved, and he knew the location of both of them now. If he could get the military there, they’d surely be able to take them out and thus put a dent in the Kosmider’s power.  
  
Maybe he could ask England for help, even. They’d agreed to do this together…  
  
The Kosmider zeppelins were nowhere in sight, America observed, as he soared through the sky. “They must have left during the night…”  
  
Once America was quite a distance from Habicht, he resolved to radio England. Carefully, he grabbed the crank radio from under his seat and placed it in his lap. He could have just used his normal radio, but then he’d have to keep the contact short--- and… he kind of didn’t want to do that.  
  
He’d missed his date with England, which he was still pretty put out about, and so he at least wanted to be able to talk to him for awhile.   
  
And plan another date.  
  
America flushed at this, shaking his head and turning the radio to England’s frequency. It was early enough that America had hopes he was still in his room, just waking up or even asleep. “Hello, hello?”   
  
A bleary “Hallo,” greeted him several seconds later.   
  
“Hey England!”  
  
England made a noise in the back of his throat, and there was an audible shifting of what sounded like bedsheets. “Git, you woke me up.”  
  
“Ah yeah, I guess it’s pretty early…” he laughed, “but I had to head back as soon as I could, you know?”  
  
England yawned. “Quite all right, I suppose. At least this time. Glad you radioed to be honest.”  
  
“Really? Awesome,” America replied, pleased. “I… it sucks about last night. Damn Kosmider…”  
  
“Bloody obnoxious at the worst times, aren’t they?” England grumbled. “I was… rather looking forward to it.”  
  
“Yeah, me too.” He bit his lip before continuing, “We’ll have to plan to meet up again.”  
  
“Y-yes… I---“  
  
“Once I get back to the base, I’ll look at my schedule and we’ll figure something out right away,” he interrupted. “I mean I have some stuff going on, but I’m sure I can make room. It shouldn’t be a problem. I just have to--- “   
  
“That sounds perfect.”  
  
America carded a hand through his hair. “I have so many things to tell you, England. I wanted to radio you and let you know I was safe and stuff, but a lot happened last night, and it’s good stuff, I promise!”   
  
“Things you’d rather say in person?” England queried.  
  
“That’s exactly it!” America replied. “I… know this frequency is private and all, but it’s still sort of risky if you know what I mean? Well maybe you don’t but I think maybe it could be, so keep it vague. I’ll explain what I mean later.”  
  
 _That the Kosmider might just have the ability to tap into secret frequencies…_  
  
He realized, that this was the first time he’d really spoken to England since he’d acknowledged that he had feelings for him. Maybe that’s why he felt like he was sort of babbling to him, making things wordier than they needed to be and overall acting rather nervous. It probably sounded pretty uncool to England, but he had to get used to this talking-to-England-while-being-in-love-with-him-thing anyway, so he may as well do it now.   
  
He took a deep breath to calm himself, hoping the heat in his cheeks would dissipate as well.   
  
“I’m always careful, America,” England countered.  
  
“Good, great!” he exclaimed. “Hey ah… I’m… just sort of flying right now, and you’re in your bedroom so…”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Do you want to just talk?” he rushed out. “I don’t care about what, but… if we can’t hang out, we could at least keep each other company over the radio.”  
  
England chuckled lightly, and America found that he very much liked that unfamiliar sound. “That sounds like a plan.”  
  
“Awesome!”  
  
“Shall I tell you what Prussia did the other day? It was the most ridiculous and idiotic thing he’s done yet… I swear…”  
  
And so they spoke, conversing and telling stories and generally getting to know each other even better than they had before. America only got off the radio to refuel and eat in Luong, and England vanished a couple of times to grab a bite to eat and check in on the going ons at top deck.   
  
America relaxed as time wound on, his nerves calming as he just fell into a content and comfortable banter with the other man. He also thought that, even though this wasn’t a date, it was still pretty damn good.   
  
It was as if the clouds were parting for him, so blue was the sky and so high were his spirits, as he flew back to the base.

* * *

  
  
Lithuania had bathed, changed into a freshly pressed uniform, and gone over what he wanted to say in his head several times. He  _had_  to tell Russia about Belarus. She had tried to attack him after all.   
  
But despite the manner in which he reacted to Belarus’s amorous advances, she and Russia had a past of some sort. He knew little about it; only that Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia were the first three members of the Kosmider.   
  
He swallowed a lump in his throat. He’d half considered not telling Russia at all, but decided that if his own safety was at risk due to Belarus’s unhinged nature, he might not be the only one. The steam powered engines of the zeppelin were a dull hum beneath his feet, in rhythm with the sound of his heartbeat.   
  
Lithuania knocked on Russia’s office door.   
  
Within moments, Russia opened it, beckoning Lithuania inside with one of his strange smiles, half gentle, half foreboding.   
  
Lithuania entered, sitting down on Russia’s by now familiar maroon velvet couch. He closed his eyes and willed his nerves to calm.   
  
“Ah, good evening Lithuania,” Russia said, reclining next to him.   
  
Lithuania heaved himself off the couch and rounded on Russia. “Last night… when I went down to the village, I was chased and almost attacked by Belarus. I only just escaped,” he managed.   
  
Russia merely raised one eyebrow. “Is that why you were out so late?”  
  
“Yes, Sir. I waited a while until I felt like the coast was clear.” He stopped himself from twiddling with his fingers, a nervous habit.  
  
“Ah well…” Russia tapped the side of his cheek. “I’m wondering why you were down in the village in the first place.”  
  
Lithuania’s eyes grew large. “Because y-you told me to, Russia, sir. I--- was supposed to get some supplies down there, but everything was already closed and--- so I took a small craft down and… I was only following orders!”  
  
Russia looked up at him from the couch, his bangs half-shadowing his eyes and a quirk of a smile on his lips. Lithuania wanted more than anything to run, but his feet were frozen in place, and he knew, that if he did, his life would be in even more danger. This was the expression Russia wore when he knew something that you did not, and it was one that Lithuania saw often. But here…  
  
Had Russia found him out after all?  
  
He managed to back up a bit, the backs of his legs whacking against the small coffee table. He winced in pain.  
  
“Good job, Lithuania,” Russia finally said.  
  
“W-what?” Lithuania gaped.  
  
“On following orders, of course,” he continued. “Belarus followed her orders very well also, from what you’re saying.”  
  
“I don’t understa---“  
  
“Others have done their part as well, Latvia… for example,” Russia said. “But you and Belarus, your missions last night were so very important.”  
  
“Russia, sir… is getting supplies really that important a mission?” Lithuania queried, although pushing at the back of his mind, was a niggling voice telling him he knew better than that, that getting supplies had never really been his mission in the first place. That in actuality, his mission had been---   
  
Russia laughed lightly. “You didn’t complete that mission, yes? But no, what you did last night… had nothing to do with that. It had everything to do with the man who saved you, the soldier?”  
  
Lithuania gulped. “H-he… I didn’t ask him to, he just came out of nowhere and…”  
  
“Which is just as I’d hoped,” Russia interrupted. “Belarus wasn’t attacking you, so I have no need to reprimand her. She just did as I told her, you see. A false chase that led to an unnecessary rescue, by a certain ‘hero’ in the vicinity, of course.”  
  
Lithuania gasped, his mind screeching to a halt and his blood running cold. “I--- he----“  
  
“You, Lithuania…” Russia reached up, running the back of his hand across Lithuania’s cheek, “are so sweet, you always have been; so trustworthy and kind as well. Who better to use than you?”   
  
“To use for what?” Lithuania asked, his voice a raspy whisper. He knew though. He knew what he had done. In his attempt to do good, to help fight the Kosmider, he’d---   
  
“You did so well on your mission, Lithuania,” Russia proclaimed sweetly. “Thanks to you, America Jones will finally be out of the picture.”  
  


* * *

  
  
America ran, shoes scuffing against the sidewalks and the concrete and the wet, rain soaked grass of the base. He passed hangars and offices and jumped fences, all in attempt to get back to his own hangar as quickly as he could manage.  
  
His heart was pounding in his ears, and he couldn’t hear anything except for it, the sound of his ragged breaths, and the memories of just minutes before replaying in his mind.  
  
 _“Captain Jones, the following allegations have been brought forward by superior officers in the World Military…”_    
  
His colonel’s words echoed, reverberating through him as he continued to run, finally reaching his hangar and reaching to open it with shaking, sweat soaked hands. His precious fob watch banged against his leg as it clattered on his chain, and he clenched it to stop its movement.   
  
 _“Seventeen days ago, a Kosmider attack occurred at the same time you were returning from a reconnaissance mission, your involvement in the attack was noted.”  
  
“I was helping fight the Kosmider, I already sai---“  
  
“I believed this at the time, but further evidence began to cast doubt on that, Jones…”_  
  
Upon opening the hangar, he dashed inside, his feet clattering across the floor. His dorm was housed in the hangar, and he quickly headed toward it. He was short on time.  
  
 _“You deviated from a flyover mission several days before that, and intelligence has revealed that the Kosmider may have used that extra time to move the last of their forces away from the area.”  
  
“My plane broke down!”  
  
“And you deviated again when you reattempted the mission two days later.”  
  
“But I completed it…”_  
  
He stuffed a few changes of clothing into a duffel bag, and glanced over at his nightstand. There was a small photo album, which he grabbed, and his prized issue of  _The Aquila Avenger_. He picked up the comic, flipped open the cover, and shook his head, frowning.   
  
He tossed it aside.   
  
 _“Ten days ago you left for over twenty-four hours, saying you were going to look for intelligence, but coming back with only useless zeppelin diagrams that we already had.”  
  
“You said at the time you didn’t!”  
  
“I was incorrect.”  
  
“But you promoted me at that time! Obviously you thought I was doing something right.”  
  
“That was before we had the full picture… Jones.”_  
  
After scribbling a short, vague note, America cinched his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. It was mid-evening, and luckily, none of his unit members were in the hangar. He gave one last sorrowful look at his dorm and sighed, closing the door behind him.   
  
 _“There were two attacks on merchant ships while you were gone…”  
  
“There are LOTS of attacks on merchant ships. That’s what I’m trying to stop!”  
  
“Your constant… excursions, often coinciding with Kosmider attacks, continued, even to the point that you participated when your own crew was there, missing your rendezvous with General Wang’s contact at the Babako.”  
  
“I didn’t attack anyone that day. I saved someone. My crew can vouch for that!”  
  
“Your crew is not in trouble, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”  
  
“I didn’t--- I meant to say that they know I was helping---“_  
  
America jogged past the dorms, pausing to slip his note under Canada’s door. He knew his cousin would share it with France and Japan. He felt a pang of guilt as he stood back up from doing so, remembering that the last time he’d spoken with Canada had been their explosive fight.  
  
 _“You had direct contact with a member of the Kosmider at the Babako.”  
  
A small piece of paper, slammed down onto a desk.  
  
“This was found in your pocket, on your person. And another military officer witnessed the encounter.”  
  
“Who--- I don’t even remember…”  
  
A flash of a young man that he’d crashed into, one with a thick accent that rather resembled Lithuania’s.   
  
“Colonel, I can’t even read this paper.”  
  
“It’s in Medvedian, Cyrillic. And I think that you can read it, considering that you followed up on it.”_  
  
His plane, and dammit, it was still  _his_  plane, sat in the hangar, illuminated by the gas lights that lit the room. America glanced at her before running over to a large weapons locker. He undid it with his combination and grabbed a pistol. He was going to need this.  
  
 _“Plan meeting with Lithuania Lorianaitis. And then of course, My Vlasteliny Nebes. You know that slogan well, don’t you?”  
  
“I didn’t plan any meeting with him. I ran into him but---“  
  
“Yesterday, you leave again and you’re spotted all the way over in Habicht meeting with a Kosmider officer. Exchanging information and spending hours together, with full knowledge of who he is.”  
  
“I was getting information against the---“  
  
“Silence! Cease speaking out of turn to your commanding officer, now.”_  
  
Lithuania had been set up, hadn’t he? Russia had someone on his team that could tap radio waves, and he’d tapped into America’s and discovered his rendezvous with England, and then interrupted it, therefore making what that note that had been slipped in his pocket said true.   
  
 _Dammit._  He cocked the pistol and, taking a page from England the third time they’d met, neatly fired a bullet at the radio. He cringed at intentionally damaging any part of his plane, but shrugged it off, jumping in the cockpit and bringing the pistol and his duffel bag with him. The Kosmider could seemingly tap into his crank radio when he was using it, but the military wouldn’t be able to track his plane, at least.  
  
 _“We have known for weeks that there is a leak in the military, giving information out to the Kosmider…”  
  
“Well—“  
  
“I had always been so proud of you, so talented and strong and young, and so much potential, unlimited, even. I would have suspected almost everyone on this base before you.”  
  
“I—“  
  
“Stop interrupting. But overwhelming evidence and orders from my commanding officers have put me in this unfortunate position.”_  
  
America started up his plane, piloting it out of the hangar and onto the tarmac. Within moments, an alarm would probably sound throughout the base. But he was fast and he was good, and he would be up in the air before they could catch him.   
  
 _“You will be tried before a military court for your suspected crimes, and if you are found guilty, you will be jailed on these very serious charges.”_  
  
He was  _not_  going to be tried for crimes he didn’t commit, and to  _hell_  if he was going to go to jail. He’d been framed, that much was obvious to him, and it was the Kosmider itself that had done it. There’s no way those bastards were going to let him win that trial.   
  
The alarm did indeed go off as he ascended into the air, but he was too high up for them to hit by the time the soldiers had gathered to attempt and shoot him down.   
  
 _“But in the meantime, you are, as of this moment, stripped of your rank and expelled from the World Aviation Force.”_  
  
Captain America Jones was just America Jones now, civilian on the run. He rubbed his eyes as he flew, unable to fight the salty tears that were escaping them. This is where being an honest hero had led him, huh? The day that had started out so filled with hope and soaring through the sky with spirits high, had turned into this?  
  
He’d stolen a plane and fled his accusers. He wasn’t even a deserter. He was… he wasn’t sure if he was better or worse than one for what he was doing now.  
  
But what he did know, was that there was only one place he could go. His vision blurry from tears as he continued to fly, America cranked the portable radio and waited in hope that the man on the other end of the frequency was still in his cabin.


	28. Hold

It was almost morning. The rays of lavender twilight lit the starscape, and England sniffed the air, knowing that the incoming dawn would soon arrive. Perhaps it was because he’d spent the entirety of his recallable life up in the sky, but England knew from one look at the vast open blue above and around him, close to what time it was; around five ‘o’ clock in the morn. It wasn’t just a visual thing either; he could tell by the smell and the sound and the wind and… all in all it didn’t make much sense to him, but the best way he could put it was that he had a bit of a sixth sense for these things. The sky was his home, and he knew it intimately.   
  
But staring at the sky was not why he was out on the deck right now; coat over his pyjamas to keep warm in the cool breeze. Instead it was because he’d received, around ten hours before, a frantic radio from America. It had been short and rushed, his tone breathless. “England, I need your coordinates. Coming to see you now. No, I can’t talk.” England had asked if he were all right. “Fine, awesome! Seriously, hurry up England.”  
  
England had given him the coordinates, and with a quick goodbye, America had clicked off.   
  
In retrospect England was nervous. He’d been fretting anxiously since the radio call, and even his crewmates had picked up that something was wrong earlier in the evening. Well, they’d long since gone to bed, leaving England alone with his thoughts on the deck, standing at the wheel.   
  
He hadn’t slept.   
  
Well what could he do? America hadn’t told him where he was flying from, so who knew when he would arrive? _You don’t need to be awake when he does. He’s perfectly capable of landing his plane and coming down to get you._  
  
He clutched his coat around him, rubbing his arms to keep them warm. And to keep himself from lulling off into sleep, he sang a song, an old shanty that his captain had taught him. “ _Through the sky and through the clouds… above the ocean blue… out amongst the stars tonight…_ ”  
  
England had no idea how long he sang, how many times he repeated the verses while rocking back and forth on his feet and staring skyward, waiting for America to appear on the horizon.   
  
It must have been, England thought for a moment, around 5:30 before he made out America’s brassy colored biplane flying toward the ship. He waved him down (most definitely not with quite a bit of enthusiasm), and ran to the largest empty spot on the ship, near mid-deck, where he’d always landed his plane.   
  
The whir of the plane’s propeller and the steam engines that powered were noisy as it landed, and England’s coat billowed backward in the wind created by America’s descent. He stood back until he could hear the engines die, and then jogged over to the craft.   
  
America was already stepping out, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, when England reached the side of the plane.   
  
He knew something was wrong immediately. America was smiling at him, that was true. But the smile was wan, forced upon, not bright and shining like his normal smiles.   
  
 _Perhaps he’s just tired…_  
  
America shifted his bag once he’d fully exited the plane. “Hey, England…”   
  
England froze up. He remembered the last time America had greeted him upon arriving; an unexpected embrace on the dock, so close, so joyous, so… well… he dared to hope, affectionate. And that hug had set something off within him, something that had been churning and blossoming and growing and bubbling in his stomach and in his heart ever since. Stupid bloody being in love.  
  
This wasn’t that greeting at all though. It was… America’s voice was strange, vacant. There was the muffled echo of the early morning air in it, but that he expected. It was as if the verve and the life that propelled America was diminished, despite the smile on his face. He swallowed down a lump in his throat. “Hallo, America.”  
  
A short false laugh. “Hey listen England, I’m pretty tired so I’m gonna go ahead and go down to the cabin and crash out. Same one as usual?”  
  
“Y-yes but…”  
  
“Cool.” America brushed by him, not even granting him a look.   
  
England noticed though, that his eyes behind his glasses were unmistakably red, the area surrounding them swollen and puffy.  
  
He waited a couple of minutes so America could reach his cabin, and then he ran after him.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Dear Canada, Japan, and France,  
  
There’s a chance you found out what happened before you even saw this note. None of you were around when I left. Canada, I bet you were at the bar. Japan, I know you weren’t back yet from that training exercise you went to today. France, I don’t really want to know. But I guess it’s best that way, because I didn’t have to spend time explaining things. I’m in a huge hurry.  
  
Anyway, I got kicked out of the military. Guess being a hero just gets you in trouble, huh?  
  
But you guys are still awesome. I know you know that I’m innocent, right?  
  
P.S.- I’m going to be safe, I promise. Canada, you probably won’t be very happy about where I went though. Sorry about that. Oh and tell my parents I’m okay.   
  
Also, they told me your positions were safe.   
  
See you around,  
  
America_  
  
Japan folded the note and handed it back to Canada. “It’s all over the base this morning, I’m afraid,” he said.   
  
Canada nodded, rubbing his eyes with the ball of his hand. They were watering up again. “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me at all…”  
  
France sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Oui. I imagine many people knew long before we did, even.” They were gathered around the table in the hangar, chairs pushed close against it as they huddled together, knowing that they needed to discuss this quietly.   
  
The mood in the hangar was morose, confused and emotionally shaken for all three of them.   
  
“It’s my fault,” Canada finally said. “The last time I saw him, we fought. If I hadn’t--- “  
  
“No, I apologize deeply, but I think it is my fault,” Japan interrupted. “I should have been more forceful with him. I---“  
  
“You are both incorrect,” France cut in. “I encouraged him to do what he thought was right, even if it meant defying the military. And you know what? It is not even my fault, nor do I regret it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Because it made him better.”  
  
Canada opened his mouth to speak, but just sighed instead.  
  
“’Ave you even looked at the accusations?” France was frowning now. “For example, supposedly he helped the Kosmider attack a ship on the way to our meeting at the Babako.”  
  
“But we were there,” Japan replied, "and we were  _rescuing_  the pirates.”   
  
“Yes, of course. And it was never investigated, hmm? Neither me nor Japan were even asked about it, despite being the only military there.”   
  
“But if you were the only soldiers there, how did they even know about it?” Canada wondered out loud.   
  
“Technically there  _were_  other soldiers there… just not of the World Military variety,” Japan clarified, a bit breathless.  
  
France rested his chin on the tops of his hands. “Exactly. I think he was framed. Someone wanted our dear America out of the picture, oui?”   
  
“The Kosmider…” Japan said.   
  
France nodded. “Indeed.”  
  
Canada bit his lip, dropping his eyes to the table. “Well of course he’s innocent but… if he hadn’t done all that leaving the base…”  
  
“Don’t be foolish, Canada,” France countered, his tone firm. “If they wanted him out of the picture, they would have found another way I’m sure.”  
  
“But it’s true that the captain’s… recent change in attitude might be part of what made him a threat in the first place, don’t you think?” Japan queried, looking unsure.   
  
France leaned back on his arms. “I suppose that is true, but… he learned to think for himself, and that is something more valuable than a captainship in the Aviation Force.”   
  
“He could end up going to prison though!” Canada snapped. “Just because he wanted to be a hero.” He ran his hand down his face.   
  
“America is innocent, and we believe that, correct?”  
  
Japan and Canada both nodded firmly.   
  
“Then if we are his friends… his comrades… his…” he glanced to Canada, “family, we should make that clear to the military, should we not?”   
  
“Yes of course.”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
“And possibly help bring down the Kosmider in the process, hmm?” France cocked an eyebrow. “That is what our captain would want, I believe.”  
  
“Forgive me, but what are you proposing?” Japan asked.  
  
France’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “La Résistance, of course.”   
  


* * *

  
  
America didn’t answer the door when England knocked. He half thought that he’d already fallen asleep, but considering how short a time he’d been in the cabin, he found that doubtful.   
  
More likely he was  _choosing_  not to answer the door.  
  
Well, England was hardly going to allow that. He puffed up his chest, braced himself, and pushed open the door.  
  
America was curled up under the covers, his duffel bag thrown on the floor and his jacket on top of it. His glasses were still on, and the comforter was only half covering him. The room’s gas light was still lit.   
  
England sighed. “America… I know you’re not asleep.”  
  
A fake snore. “Honestly, what do you take me for? No one would fall for that.” He stepped over to the bed and patted America once on the back. “Now get up and tell me what’s going on, all right?”   
  
No response.   
  
England grumbled to himself, then reached down and yanked the pillow out from under his head.  
  
“Ahhh, dammit England!” America pouted as his head hit the mattress with a thunk. “Seriously, I’m fine. I’m just really tired and I need to stay here for a while, okay?”  
  
England furrowed his eyebrows and sat on the side of the bed. America rubbed his eyes and sat up as well, dangling his legs off the bed next to England.   
  
He thought, in the light, that it was even more apparent that the man had been crying. England could see poorly concealed tear tracks on his cheeks. His chest tightened. What had made him cry?  
  
And he felt anger well up within him also. If someone had hurt America to the point that he was acting like this, Captain Kirkland very much wanted to give them a visit.   
  
“You’re not fine,” England retorted. He hesitated for a moment, but then squeezed America’s shoulder. America did not pull away, and England kept his hand resting there.   
  
“I am too…”   
  
“Firstly,” England began, making direct eye contact with him, “you did not tease me for what I’m wearing.” He pointed to his pyjamas and pirate coat combination. “That alone proves that something is off.”  
  
America’s lips quirked up in what appeared to be a genuine half-smile. “Yeah… well it is pretty goofy.”   
  
England huffed. “Not convinced.” He grabbed America’s other shoulder and turned him to face himself. “You don’t have to hide anything from me, all right? I can see that something is very wrong.”  
  
“How can you---“  
  
“Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?” England queried, leveling him a look.   
  
America scratched his cheek. “Well I was in my plane…”   
  
England surveyed him again. The empty, wan expression remained on his features, and his body was slumped slightly, his posture exuding glumness. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. “Let me be blunt, America.” He reached up with one hand and gently, tenderly, he removed America’s glasses, placing them on the bedside table.   
  
America’s blue eyes widened, and a blush lit up his cheeks.   
  
England ignored the heat that was rising to his own face and pressed a finger to America’s face, rubbing away a bit of moisture next to one of America’s eyes. “You’ve been crying…” He traced the back of his hand over the tearstains on his cheeks. “I think that you’ve been crying a whole lot.”  
  
Unbidden, America leaned his face into England’s touch, and England turned his hand so he was cupping America’s cheek and rubbing a finger under his eye, over one of the tearstains. America closed his eyes.   
  
It was a moment that England wanted to treasure; this simple, intimate, trusting gesture from America. It caused him to feel warm all over, and that growing feeling of hope to strengthen. He was sure that America didn’t let just anyone do this…   
  
But, England reminded himself, this was hardly the time to get excited about America’s display of affection. He still had no bloody idea what was going on after all.  
  
“America, please tell me what’s going on.”  
  
His eyes opened and his lips parted to speak, but then he just sighed. Slowly, as if his body were heavier than usual, he pulled out of England’s touch.   
  
“I---“ America glanced down at his lap and twisted his fingers in the hem of his shirt. He closed his eyes, opened them, and took a deep breath. “I tried so hard… England. Tried to be a hero and…”   
  
Tears were prickling at the corner of America’s eyes, and although America reached up swiftly to wipe them away, England had still had enough time to notice.   
  
England swallowed thickly, his heart hammering in his ears. “Tried--- what do you…”  
  
America’s eyes welled up again, and England resisted the urge to brush his tears away.   
  
“But the military didn’t think so… they…” he lowered his voice, “…think I’m a spy for the Kosmider… they… want to try me and put me in prison and…”  
  
England stiffened, his green eyes huge. That America… of all people… would… what the bloody hell was wrong with them?   
  
America sniffled and rubbed under his nose. “They kicked me out England, stripped me of my rank and… I think I was framed… Kosmider spy, whoever it is…” He turned his face away, his misty eyes downcast. “I decided to run, ‘cuz what else could I do? Not the most heroic reaction but… that’s… why I’m here now.”  
  
England did not speak. Instead, without a second thought, he leapt forward and wrapped his arms around America, running his hands down his back and resting his chin on top of his head, as if he was trying to make his body a shield to protect the man he loved from all the harms of the world.   
  
And when America choked out a sob, England tightened his hold, whispering ‘hush, hush it’s all right’ in his ear and using one hand to run his fingers through his soft blond hair.   
  
And when America’s body began to shake, the sobs wracking his form, England placed his lips on the crown of America’s head and kissed him, soft and kind.   
  
He didn’t like the military. He thought America was too good for it by far. For all intents and purposes, he should have been happy that America was free of it. Yes, he’d be an outlaw now, but… well England was an outlaw as well, so it hardly mattered to him if someone else was.  
  
Feeling like that would have been easier, but instead he felt indignant rage and sadness and love swelling up like a wave, crashing over him and onto America, who he held and who he wanted to feel all of what he was feeling, know how much he wanted to be there for him, to protect him, to… hold him.   
  
America was all spirit and life, idealism and dreams and--- someone had taken that and… tried to crush it out of him. Did they even know what they were doing?  
  
If it was the Kosmider though, perhaps they knew  _exactly_  what they were doing.   
  
He gritted his teeth in order to stop a string of curses from escaping his lips.  
  
America shifted a bit, and England felt wet tears stain his pyjama top. “You idiot," he finally spoke, but his voice was quiet and comforting, the insult coming out an endearment. “Don’t cry, I’m here…”  
  
“But England…” his voice was muffled, his face now pressed against England’s chest.  
  
“Don’t give me that,” England said. “I know you’re stronger than this. So someone out there doesn’t think you’re a hero? Well they’re an imbecile.”   
  
America was clenching England’s jacket with his hands now.  
  
“And I---I know it’s more than that,” his voice went quiet, and he murmured his words into the top of America’s hair, the ever-stubborn piece that always stuck up tickling his mouth. “God America I just---“ his throat felt dry, and he was feeling rather lost for words.   
  
 _You were doing the right thing…  
  
If my opinion is of any relevance, you’re quite a hero to me…  
  
I won’t leave your side… so please, stop crying..._  
  
He pulled away slightly, and America glanced up at him, fingers still holding the lapels of his jacket. America’s eyes were watery, but it was obvious he’d just wiped them. His cheeks were red, and England didn’t know if that was purely because he was upset, or if he was also flustered. With his glasses off and his blue eyes wide, he looked… vulnerable.   
  
England was struck, at that moment, by how easy it would be to lean down and kiss him. He’d wanted to do it again so, so badly since that day in the water, and--- he supposed that America wouldn’t have the energy to be too opposed to it at the moment.  
  
He shook his head. Which was exactly why he wasn’t going to kiss him. Bloody hell he wanted to, but America wasn’t in his right mind at the moment. He might accept a kiss for comfort that he wouldn’t have wanted another time. And that was--- absolutely  _not_  what England wanted with America.  
  
Instead he brushed America’s bangs aside with a soft touch of his fingers, leaned forward, and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.   
  
 _I love you. I can’t stand seeing you like this._  
  
There was a moment in which England thought he glimpsed a small smile on America’s face.   
  
And then America leaned up, wordless, and pushed England’s bangs away, kissing England’s forehead in return. England’s cheeks blossomed red.   
  
“P-please know,” he cleared his throat, “that you can stay here as long as you like.”   
  
America nodded. “Thanks… thanks a lot England.” He yawned. “I actually am sleepy.”  
  
“Yes, me too,” England replied.   
  
England glanced out the porthole and noticed that the sun was rising, painting the sky in golds and burnished reds.   
  
America’s mood had only risen slightly, he realized. He was still morose and at least halfway hollow, and he knew he’d have a pang in his heart until America was back to himself.  
  
But he would be there. Dammit, he would be there.   
  
“So I guess I’ll go to bed now…”   
  
America had let go of his jacket and was sitting completely upright. England’s hands still rested on his shoulders.  
  
“Quite right,” England said, removing his coat and tossing it over the room’s chair. “We should sleep. I’d like to be up before the day is over, personally.”  
  
America raised an eyebrow. “…We?”  
  
England’s cheeks grew redder. He glanced down and away. “Git. Y-you don’t honestly expect me to leave you right now, do you?”   
  
America’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped in a surprised ‘o.’ He blushed and scratched the back of his head. “S-sure…I guess that’s… I’ll be okay but…”  
  
“You’re not in the least bit okay, America,” England interrupted. He slipped his boots off and flopped down onto the bed, taking the spot near the wall and patting the mattress next to him. “I want someone here with you. I don’t want to see you alone right now.”   
  
America blinked.   
  
England released a puff of air. “Look if you’re honestly uncomfortable with it… I understa—“  
  
“No, that’s not the case at all,” America retorted, gesturing with his hands. “I… don’t mind.” He toed off his shoes and joined England in lying down.   
  
England wrapped his arms around his center, not content to stop comforting him. America leaned into his touch, relaxing.   
  
“G’night… England,” he said, his voice laced with sleep.   
  
“I think you mean good morning.”  
  
“Oh right… good morning then?”  
  
England nodded against America’s back. “Hmmm indeed. Sleep well,” he replied.  _And good morning, love…_


	29. Coming to Terms

 

“We’re being separated,” Japan said while panting, having jogged back to the hangar immediately after receiving the news. “Our unit is being split up.” 

Canada’s mouth dropped open. France’s eyes grew wide, but then he sighed, “I suppose it is to be expected… all things considered.” 

Canada lifted up his goggles. He’d been giving a check over to France’s plane. “But… America said we’d keep our positions. I thought—“ 

“We’re not losing our positions,” Japan interrupted politely. “We’re being transferred. I apologize. It may… make what we wish to do more difficult if we’re not together.”

He sat down at the table in the hangar and pulled his bomber jacket, previously slung over his arm, back on. The large overhead fans, combined with the cool early evening breezes outside, were causing it to feel a bit chilly. 

France nodded, rueful. “Oui. We will have to make the best of it.”

Canada bit his lip and joined them at the table. “D’you know where we’re being moved, eh?” 

Japan ran his fingers across the top of the table, a pensive expression on his face. “France, you’ll be transferred to unit thirty-seven…”

“That is the unit Vietnam heads up, correct?” he clarified, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “It is. Canada, you’re… not going to be a part of a specific unit. Colonel orders you to remain at the base as a mechanic for any unit that requires you.” 

Canada ran a hand through his hair and pouted. “Staying in the military at all while America isn’t here… is…” he shook his head, “gonna be so weird. Where am I boarding?”

At this Japan glanced away. “I’m sorry, but they want you to live off base.”

“What? But why? I don’t have anywhere--- “ 

“You are America’s cousin,” France cut in. “If they see anyone as a danger, it is probably you. They do not want you around the base when you don’t have to be, I imagine.” 

Japan nodded. “What they don’t realize, is that we are all loyal to our captain.”

Canada slid his goggles off entirely and ran a hand down his face. “My parents live too far away to commute. I guess I could get an apartment…”

“Forgive me if I’m out of place in suggesting this, but you are friends with Cuba, correct?” Japan queried. 

Canada nodded. 

“If it isn’t too much trouble, perhaps you could ask if you could stay with him for a while. I understand if you don’t wish to ask or think it would be encroaching too much but…”

Canada waved his hand. “His apartment has an extra room, so I guess I can ask.” He rested his chin in his palm. “Still… I can’t stay there forever.”

“It won’t be forever,” Japan replied. “Only until we clear America’s name.” 

“Yeah,  _if_  we can clear his name,” Canada mumbled. 

“We will.” Japan’s lips closed into a firm line, his eyes hard and determined. 

France tapped his chin. “You have not told us where you are going, Japan?”

At this, Japan's cheeks pinked. “I’m very sorry. I was getting to that.” He exhaled. “Because of my rank, I had some say in my transfer. I am… transferring to the Delphys Division of the force.”

“You are going all the way over to Delphys?” France said, surprise and a tinge of irritation in his voice. “How are we supposed to work together if you are not even here?” His face lit up in realization. “Japan, Delphys is where Greece is stationed, correct?”

“T-that is why I’m going there.”

France frowned. “I never thought I would say this, but now is not the time for romance, Japan.” 

Japan’s already pink cheeks went scarlet. “Greece and I are not---“ he sighed, “never mind. I trust Greece to be an ally, but more than that, he works in the military’s messenger service. He’s often privy to information others are not. I just think that if we all work in different areas, we might be able to find the leak and clear America’s name sooner.” 

“That’s a good point, eh…”

France rested his elbows on the table. “You think we should split up, cover more ground that way, do you not?” 

Japan nodded. “Yes. I have a plan.”

* * *

The warm reds and golds of the sunset crept into the porthole, breaking as they touched the pair curled up together in the small bed. 

America’s eyes slid open, and he squinted at the light, reaching up with one hand to rub his forehead. He had a dull headache, and his mind was fuzzy, despite being well rested. 

He shifted, and upon doing so, felt something tighten around his waist. He glanced down to see a pair of arms clad in striped pajamas and… a small smile touched his lips.

“England…”

A murmur and a soft puff of air on the back of his neck was the first reply America received. 

“Bloody hell it’s late,” England finally said, muffled, after several moments. “We slept all day.”

America frowned, and absently, he rubbed his fingers over England’s hands around his waist. “Yeah… guess we were tired.” 

He felt England nod against his back and could have sworn his face was heating as well. “P-Prussia came in at one point, the imbecile.”

America’s cheeks grew red. “O-oh…”

“I told him that if he said a thing? Forget the mast; I’d tie him to the bow of the ship.” 

America felt a hand on his cheek, coaxing him to turn around. He did so, facing England, who was giving him a small, tender smile.

“This is probably a daft question, but how are you doing?” he asked.

America bit his lip and glanced away for a moment, before turning back with a bright smile on his face. “As good as I can be, I guess.”

England smacked his cheek lightly. “No faking it, all right? You don’t need to force a smile for me.” 

“Y-yeah…”

He and England were really close, their bodies flushed together. It wasn’t the first time they’d slept together, but it was the first time since America had realized his… feelings. It was different. He stared at England; at bright green eyes pooling with concern, and a small, but genuine smile. 

_I could tell him…_

It wouldn’t be  _too_  difficult to close the distance between them and kiss him, whispering his feelings as he did so.

But he’d dumped a lot on England in the past twelve hours. 

“I do sort of have a headache?”

England ran a hand through his hair and sat up. “That’s probably because you were crying---“ America frowned. “Sorry. In any case, a glass of water or maybe some tea might help?”

“I don’t like tea.” 

“Ah, that’s right… well water and a bath then, perhaps.” 

America sat up and dangled his feet off the side of the bed. “You guys have a bath on this ship?” 

England scoffed, crossing his arms. “Of course we do. You’ve just only ever stayed here a night so…”

He smiled. “Cool. I guess I never thought about it.” 

England slid off the bed and stood up. “Are you implying that I smell?” 

America’s eyes widened. “No. Geez, England. I… like I’d think that, okay?”

Both of them blushed pink.

“R-right well… you’ll find the bath in the room next to the loo. I know you know where that is,” he explained. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Come up to the galley once you’re dressed, all right? We’ll have something to eat.”

America nodded, reaching over to grab his glasses as he did so. He snatched his pack and slung it over his shoulder. “Great.”

England rubbed his arms for a few moments before exhaling, and then reached up to touch America’s cheeks; the tear stains having not yet vanished all the way. “I want you to know that…” his face reddened, “everything I said this morning, I meant.”

America felt his chest tighten, and it squeezed around his heart and he wanted so much to show England how grateful he was, how thankful he was that he was there when no one else could be, and there when America needed someone the most. 

Instead he just wrapped England in a hug, a warm embrace so tight and desperate that England gasped for breath, his feet dangling off the ground. America pressed his face into England’s shoulder, feeling the tickle of his hair at the nape of his neck and taking in the scent, the sight, everything  _England_. He willed his tears back, but when he said “Thank you, England,” it still came out a choked sob. 

* * *

The bath was warm and soothing, the steam rising up out of the water helping his head to clear. America leaned back in the water, sliding his eyes closed and letting out a puff of air.

But even though the dull ache in his forehead was slowly dissipating, America found that being alone forced him to do something he really didn’t want to do. 

It forced him to think.

Even if he’d had time to think through his actions the previous night, instead of doing everything at breakneck speed, he was fairly sure that he wouldn’t have done anything different.

It’s not as if he had many options. England was the safest place to go. He was used to avoiding the law. He did it every day. It was practically his career. 

America’s stomach lurched. 

He was an outlaw now, a man on the run from the military, one who had defied orders and---

Even if he were able to get his name cleared, would they ever allow him back into the military? If he’d been a good soldier and gone to trial, maybe justice would have won out, and then he’d be allowed back in. Then he’d be considered a hero.

And he’d be back with his best friends, back with his family. Everything would be normal again.

He lowered his face into the water halfway, blowing bubbles and pouting underwater. 

Did he really want things to be normal again?

Did he want to return to the military and have to follow every order dutifully for fear of them suspecting him of criminal activities again? Did he want to never be able to question them again, because surely even if the judge decreed him not guilty, they’d still keep an extra close watch on him?

It was kind of a dumb thing to say… or think, he thought, but America knew that he’d changed; that his idea of what being a hero meant wasn’t the same as it had been before he met England. 

Being a hero meant doing what you knew was right, no matter what. 

And even though at the current moment, America felt like pretty much the least heroic person ever, a failure really, he knew that it was still what he wanted to be. 

Splashing his face one last time, America stepped out of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around his center.

He reached into his pack and pushed aside the extra military uniform at the top, snatching instead a pair of tan full length breeches and a light blue button up shirt.

And then he pulled his clothing on, adding his normal pair of tall black boots and staring in the mirror once he’d put his glasses on. He was rarely out of uniform, but… 

America decided there was no use pretending he was something he was not. He shoved the extra uniform to the bottom of his bag, piling all of his other clothing on top of it. 

Leaning down, he retrieved the uniform he’d taken off, folding it neatly with a frown. America ran a finger across the cold metal of his captain’s insignia. He shook his head and sighed, not removing it from the folded vest. 

_So much for surpassing Grandpa and Dad… so much for reaching General Wang…_  

He raked a hand through his damp, towel dried hair, and then removed his fob watch from his discarded belt. 

Running his fingers over the cracked surface, he smiled a small, rueful smile. 

But it didn’t mean that he couldn’t still fight the Kosmider, and he was damn sure that England was still up to the task as well. Not being in the military might not be so bad with England there. 

He wrapped the chain around the belt he now wore, allowing the fob watch to dangle, its familiar weight pressed against his upper thigh. 

America hoped that his grandfather would approve, but knew that even if he wouldn’t have, he’d still do it. 

* * *

It was Switzerland who came into the kitchen first, upon realizing that England was finally awake. He sat across from England, his eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips firmly together.

“’Allo, Switzerland,” England said, as if there were nothing unusual going on.

“I saw you and America.”

England nearly dropped his teacup. “Prussia! I’m going to kill him.” 

Switzerland rolled his eyes. “Prussia didn’t tell me anything. We all looked into the cabin on our own. Prussia was just the only one loud enough to actually wake you up.”

England's cheeks went scarlet. “M-mind your own business!”

Switzerland rested one elbow on the wooden table. “Making sure you’re safe is my business. You weren’t in one of your normal places, so of course I was going to look for you.”

England frowned and stared down into his tea. “America is… going to be staying here.”

Switzerland's eyes went wide. “He’s joining the crew? But he’s---“

“He’s not joining the crew. He’s merely… staying here for personal reasons, which I’d prefer you not to ask him about. America will share if he wishes to,” England explained.

At this, Switzerland crossed his arms, irritated. “So he’s just staying here, while we do all the work and the raids, he gets a free pass? I know you like him Captain but…”

England raised a hand to silence the gunner. His cheeks were pink again. “Belt up, Switzerland. Firstly, you know we haven’t been doing much in the way of raids with the Kosmider threat. Secondly? He’s my guest, so I’ll use my share to cover anything he needs.”

“Fine, then.” He stood up and brushed off his breeches. “Liechtenstein volunteered to cook dinner. She’ll be starting that soon.”

He began to walk away, but England called him back, “One last thing, Switzerland.”

“Yes?”

“Treat him well, all right? He’s been through a lot.”

Switzerland just nodded, and America entered the galley almost immediately after he’d exited. 

England’s eyes softened. “America…”

“Hey, England,” he replied, scratching the side of his head and giving him a small smile.

“Let me get you that glass of water.” 

“Thanks.” America sat down in one of the rough-hewn wooden chairs. 

England glanced back as he filled a glass with water, boiled and then cooled and stored in the ice chest in the closet. It was the first time, outside when he’d been wearing just his boxers (he flushed at this), that he’d seen America  _fully_  out of his military uniform. He felt a pang at this, but shook it off.

The sky blue of his shirt matched his eyes, which shone behind his spectacles. 

He handed the glass to America and sat back down. “Was your bath okay?”

America perked up. “Yeah, it felt great! Seriously… I was feeling kind of grimy.”

The tear tracks were finally gone, and his eyes no longer looked red. 

“Quite right, then.”

England ran his finger across the handle of his teacup, and America gulped down his glass of water.

A heaviness had settled between them. There was a tenuous unspoken, things they both wanted to say but didn’t feel it the right time. 

England wished that something would break the dam, make it so they both felt like they could say what they wanted to. 

“So uh, I have some stuff to tell you about the Kosmider.”

England raised his eyes at this. “America, you don’t need to right now. Take a break, all right?”

America’s eyebrows narrowed. “No way in hell. Do you think the Kosmider is going to take a break? I… can’t do it either.”

England's mouth formed an ‘o,’ but despite his surprise, he was more than happy to see some of America’s fiery spirit and determination returning. 

“If you don’t still want to fight--- I get---“

“Are you bloody kidding me?” England snapped. “I want to kick their arses more than ever.” 

America grinned at this. “Awesome.” England chuckled. “So the thing is,” America began, finishing off his glass of water, “the night you and I were supposed to meet up? I ended up meeting a Kosmider member instead. He told me a lot, England. And I think… some of it can really help us.”

And America explained his encounter with Lithuania, the details and facts of their meeting down to every last bit. He continued talking even when Liechtenstein came in to start preparing dinner, and it was a solid hour before he finished talking. 

England gaped. “Blimey, you really hit the jackpot there, I dare say.”

“Y-yeah. It cost me a lot but…”

England man stood up and walked to the other side of the table. He rested his palm on America’s cheek. “You were set up. It’s not your fault.” 

“I know…”

He patted his cheek and pulled away, crossing his arms. “So tell me about these strongholds. Do you remember the locations?”

America’s expression brightened. “I remember every detail.” 

“Well since the military is obviously not going to do anything, I reckon it’s up to us, do you agree?” And England’s green eyes flashed; determination, conviction, and eagerness. 

“Seems like it is,” America replied, placing his hands behind his head. “The first one, the bigger one, is on the Medved side of the Lyod Strait. He said it was really difficult to get to, inaccessible unless you know the area well. Plus it’s like… negative a million degrees up there. I know the exact directions, but…”

“Not to mention the ice storms and the blizzards,” England grumbled. “The Victoria isn’t built for that kind of weather. I can’t take her up there, my unfamiliarity with the area aside.”

America jutted out his lower lip and exhaled. “Yeah… I guess we could go for the smaller one…”

England shook his head, a pensive expression on his face. “Absolutely not. It’s better to take out the bigger threat.” 

“But---“

He grabbed a chair and slid it next to America, sitting down beside him. He was smirking. “I’ve got other resources, America, other crews that are also against the Kosmider.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s high time I give my allies up north a call,” he said, firm and confident. 

“Who?”

England placed a hand on America’s shoulder. “The Ukko Pirates, the toughest crew in all the skies.”


	30. The Ukko

Prussia gritted his teeth and kicked his toe against the floor, his fists clenched in anger. “No way!”  
  
“What do you mean no way?” England asked, quirking an eyebrow. The two were sitting in the ship’s galley, the rest of the crew having left the room.   
  
England had called everyone into the room to discuss his visit to the Ukko Pirates. He’d contacted the group earlier that day, less than thirty hours after America’s arrival on the ship, and they’d agreed with no hesitation to assist in the Kosmider attack.   
  
This didn’t surprise England, to be honest. Every group of pirates he’d spoken to since the threat began held the same vendetta against the group. And the Ukko were always up for a fight, providing that the fight meant something. They were confident in their strength, and deservedly so. They weren’t called the rulers of the northern skies for no reason. They fought with a wide variety of weapons, all of them having perfected their respective arts, and they were hardy and  _tough_. Living constantly in that weather alone was admirable, England thought.   
  
He would be heading up north to rendezvous with the Ukko, and he planned on leaving later that day. The less time wasted, the better.  
  
England wasn’t going alone, of course. While there was no way to bring his entire crew, because that sky was too dangerous for his ship, America would be coming. The fact that they were in this together aside, it was  _his_  plane that they’d be flying up there.   
  
It was going to be more than a bit cramped. England flushed at the thought. He’d be spending hours sitting in America’s lap, their bodies pressed together and…   
  
But he really had no other options, save having the Ukko come down and meet them, which would waste loads of time.   
  
He hadn’t asked Prussia to stay behind, but he was staunchly refusing to leave the room after the meeting.   
  
Prussia was incensed.   
  
“You heard me, no way!” Prussia shouted. “You’re my captain, man, and you know that I’m loyal. But this is just too unawesome!”  
  
“Prussia, the decision makes perfect sense,” England replied, growing impatient.   
  
“But I’M the first mate,” he argued, his hands slamming against the table.   
  
England rubbed between his eyebrows. “Look, Prussia. You won the role of first mate in a drunken bet. I’m not about to argue with you about it, because why bother? You can have that position for all I care.”  
  
“Yeah, well, if you’re okay with it, you should also be okay assigning me as the temporary captain while you’re gone!”   
  
“I’m not okay giving you that level of power, Prussia,” England replied. “Honestly, you’re a right brilliant swordsman, but you haven’t got the experience.”  
  
“I’m older than you.”  
  
“You and almost everyone else,” England grumbled. “You haven’t got the experience to be a captain, and your attitude is… a bit too… how to put it, eccentric?”   
  
Prussia stormed over to England, heavy boots loud. “I’ve been on this ship longer than ANYONE ELSE HERE, England! I know it like the back of my fucking hand. I’ve fought for you since you were sixteen years old, back when you were a total pipsqueak that no one would take seriously.”  
  
“I was not a--- I realize that, and I appreciate it, but Spain is an actual captain, and he’s naturally the best choi—“  
  
“HE’S NOT EVEN PART OF OUR CREW. Shit, man! I can’t believe how you don’t see that this is a total blow.”   
  
England crossed his arms. “I don’t see Switzerland whining.”  
  
“He’s not your first mate!”  
  
“I told you that was just a be—“  
  
“It doesn’t fucking matter!” Prussia bellowed. “You shouldn’t have given me the damn position if you didn’t mean it. Captain leaves, and the first mate takes his place.”   
  
England rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that there was a pirate handbook setting this in stone. I’ve also known Spain almost just as long as you!”  
  
Prussia took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Look. I mean… I like Spain and everything. He’s awesome, and I feel… really awful for what happened to him. But---“ he pointed to himself, “I have been so fucking loyal to you! You might think that I goof off a lot, and you’d be right. So what, I like to have fun. But damn if I wouldn’t fight to the death for this crew.”  
  
England stood up to face Prussia. “I know you would, but I can’t leave the ship in the hands of someone who… acts up as much as you.”   
  
“We’re fucking pirates. That’s what we DO.”  
  
“That’s what you do,” England huffed. “I don’t see Switzerland or anyone else acting that ridiculous.”   
  
“Or America?”  
  
England stiffened. “Excuse me? What does he have to do with--- don’t you bring him into this!”  
  
Prussia snorted and crossed his arms, growing more irritable by the moment. “This has nothing to do with skill or who is a hooligan or behavior or any shit like that. It’s about trust, isn’t it? You don’t  _trust_  me with the crew.”   
  
England gaped, rather like a fish. “Moron! You know I trust you. Do I have an agreement with anyone else about… what happened back then? I wouldn’t do that with just anyone, you know.”   
  
“That was in the past,” Prussia said. “Now, you don’t tell us anything. America shows up out of the blue, and we’re not allowed to ask a fucking thing. We might hurt his delicate sensibilities or something. You can’t trust that we’d know not to be an ass to him if something bad did happen to him? The Kosmider? You gather a shit ton of information, I know you have, and you haven’t told us anything more than the bare bones. You’re going up to fight the damn assholes, and you just leave us behind to babysit the ship? Bullshit.”   
  
“Th-there’s no way we can take our ship—“  
  
“We could meet them halfway? Dock the Victoria somewhere while we’re on board their ship?”  
  
“That’s not a terrible idea, but a plane is much faster, and we don’t have time!” England countered. “Spain has instructions to try to find some place to dock near Tsuru, so you all won’t be in any danger while we’re gone. There won’t even be much captaining to do.”   
  
Prussia scowled. “Fine, sure. But what about the rest?”   
  
England bit his lip. “L-look, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not trying to keep anything from you. It just… hasn’t happened. I haven’t sat down and--- well as for America, it’s not my business to tell you what happened, nor is it my business to tell you anything else that happens between us.”  
  
Prussia let out a short, bitter laugh. “You always had time before. You know that I think America is great, and that… he’s good for you, but it fucking sucks, when I’m pretty damn sure that you already trust him more than anyone else in the crew.”   
  
“That’s not---“  
  
“But it IS! And I bet you’d pick even him as captain over me. Hell, he’d probably be your first---“  
  
“America’s not a pirate, nor will he ever be one. It’s irrelevant,” England snapped.   
  
“Yeah, but what if?” Prussia cocked an eyebrow.  
  
England sighed, glancing up at Prussia, for he was quite a bit taller than him. “You don’t mean the things you’re saying, Prussia. You know I trust you, and I know you don’t mind America… or Spain. You’re just getting all worked up about this captain thing. Go outside and catch a breath of fresh air.”   
  
“Only if you---“  
  
“It is not going to happen,” he punctuated each word, his expression firm and his face close to Prussia’s. “Now be a good first mate and  _deal_  with it.”   
  
Prussia’s eyes went wide for a moment, and there was something almost… childlike and hurt in them, but then he snarled. “Fuck you, Captain. Enjoy your northern honeymoon.”   
  
And shoving past England, more than a little bit roughly, he stormed out of the room.   
  


* * *

  
  
The noon day sun shone down upon the ship’s deck, and America covered his eyes and squinted. England would be ready to leave at any moment. He’d refueled his plane (luckily, they kept some on board), grabbed his minimal possessions, and was prepared for departure.   
  
America sighed, fingering the gun he had strapped to his belt. He was so ready to do this, ready to face the Kosmider face to face and… no matter what the result regarding his role in the military, he was ready. Something heavy settled in his stomach. Could he end up stuck as an outlaw for the rest of his life? Would he be able to visit his family again, his parents whom he loved and his cousin and his friends?   
  
He would, even if he had to take risks, make sure that he saw them again.  
  
But he couldn’t  _stay_  with them, and he might not ever be able to do so. America gulped, thick and heavy. A life on England’s ship, if England allowed it, was so far from what he’d ever seen himself doing, but…   
  
He did love England, and if England loved him back, maybe--   
  
“America,” a voice interrupted him, and he glanced up to see England, his boots clattering toward the plane.  
  
England looked… different.  
  
He was wearing a nicer coat than he usually did, a rich navy one with silver accents. His shirt was fancier, neatly pressed and with a cravat; topped by a silver broach with an emerald inside. America could see a fringe of lace peeking from the cuffs of his coat as well.  
  
His sword and pistol had obviously been well polished, and in his ears he wore two pairs of small, silver earrings; little hoops that cuffed around the bottom of his ear lobes.   
  
England always looked nice, or so America thought. He was always clean and well kept, and in addition to that, being England he was just really, really attractive period.   
  
But right now, with the way the jewel on his cravat reflected the color of his eyes, with his boots shined and his clothing all pressed, he looked even handsomer.   
  
And he was about to spend hours upon hours with this guy in this lap.   
  
America’s cheeks went pink.   
  
“…America?” England queried, noticing his silence.   
  
“Hey England!” America started, beaming at him. “Um, let me get your bag. I’m gonna put it behind the chair with mine, okay? Your sword too. I don’t really want that in my lap.” He laughed, scratching the back of his head as he did so.  
  
England nodded and handed him his pack. America slung it over his shoulder and cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing once more. “Umm… you look… pirate-y.”   
  
Okay, that had been dumb.  
  
“Pirate-y?” England quirked a brow. “Well I  _am_  a pirate.”  
  
“Yeah I mean…” he coughed, “I’ve never seen you so dressed up, I guess. I didn’t even know you had your ears pierced! It’s just kind of… pirate-y.”   
  
England rolled his eyes but fingered his ear lobe. “When I was very young, the captain’s first mate did it. Bloody hell, it hurt.” He winced. “Anyway, I don’t wear them often. I find the feeling of wearing them a bit irritating.”   
  
“Oh well…”  
  
“In any case, I’m dressed up because I want the Ukko to know that I’m taking this alliance seriously. I’m not just hopping into this on impulse,” England elaborated.   
  
“Sounds kind of like a business meeting,” America said. “I didn’t know pirates worked like that.”   
  
England unsheathed his sword, wrapping it in a thick piece of cloth that he pulled from his pocket. “We all do things our own way. For me though, being a pirate doesn’t mean that I’m going to sacrifice being a gentleman.” He gave America a small smile.   
  
America laughed. “I was thinking more stodgy than gentlemanly.”   
  
“Shut it!” he huffed, placing a hand on his hip. “It’s called being dignified.”  
  
America just shook his head. “Anyway, you look…” he coughed and felt his face heat, “nice, really nice.”   
  
England’s green eyes went wide. “Y-you…”  
  
“I better pack up.” He pointed to England’s bag, which he still held. “You wanna go tell the crew we’re leaving, or have you already done so?”   
  
He nodded wordlessly, handing America his wrapped blade as he did so.   
  
“Yes, I’ll be right back. Oh and---”   
  
“Careful with your sword? Geez, I know,” America laughed, shooting him a warm smile and giving him a mock half salute. “See you in a minute, England.”  
  


* * *

  
  
More than anything, England was sore. They’d been in the plane for hours, and yes, it was sometimes awkward. When he shifted, he pressed into America’s lap and his groin, and his cheeks would always flare up scarlet. America’s did the same.   
  
At one point, England had tried to reach over and behind America to snatch a bag of food they’d brought along. Despite attempting to be careful, he’d whacked America rather painfully in the nose in the process. America had hissed in pain, and from time to time, he would still press the tender area and wince. England could see a small bruise blooming on it, and he felt a tinge of guilt.  
  
But well, it was cramped. And so yes, he was sore. He couldn’t stretch out his legs all the way, but he also couldn’t bend them completely because then they’d block America’s access to the controls. They were stuck in this sort of annoying in between position, and he’d had to keep his arms to his sides most of the time as well.  
  
He knew America wasn’t much better off. He had to constantly stretch his arms around England to pilot the plane, and his long legs were quashed and according to him “kept falling asleep.”   
  
In a strange way, it was a bit of a relief. True, he thought that he’d be sore for hours after the flight, but it was far better than spending the entire time feeling flustered and embarrassed because the man he loved was constantly basically holding him around his center and breathing on the back of his neck.   
  
The company was comfortable though, at least. Often they went lengthy spans of time without speaking, which was fine, because it was a companionable silence. Other times, they chattered, having conversations of various lengths about all sorts of topics. England considered bringing his fight with Prussia up, but decided that given their current situation, it wasn’t a good time to get potentially worked up. At one point, America pointed out his record player, explaining how he’d had it installed and even babbling on about some of his favorite artists and songs. England’s familiarity with modern music was limited. Being on a pirate ship did cut him off a bit from society, he explained. There was a sort of archaic feel to the life, and he often thought, when he visited port towns and the like, that he was a bit behind the times.   
  
And then he’d explained that sky-pirates on the whole were, quite out of date. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a dying profession.”  
  
“It’s not a profession,” America laughed.  
  
“Oh shut it. Anyway, perhaps I’ll be the last generation. Who knows?”   
  
America just nodded, and England must have imagined the way he looked a bit… sad for him. “Hey, you ever been to see a moving picture?”  
  
“W-what kind of subject change is that? But no, I haven’t. They’re still quite new, and as I told you, living on a ship does keep you a bit out of the loop.”  
  
America grinned. “Well it’s just you were talking about being behind the times, so it came to mind. I’m gonna take you to one. It’ll be a date! I bet we can even find one about pirates.”  
  
England felt his cheeks warm, but he nodded. “A-all right, that… we can do that some time, I suppose.”   
  
America leaned forward, and just barely, he nuzzled into the crook of England’s neck. “ _Awesome_.”  
  
The sun was setting, and England could feel the temperature dropping drastically. He was glad he’d kept his coat on.   
  
“I do believe that we’re almost there. Let’s radio them and doublecheck the coordinates.”

* * *

  
  
“God, England… it’s so cold,” America whined, and his teeth were chattering,  _damn_. He was no stranger to cold weather, as much as he disliked it. He’d spent a couple of years growing up living in one of Aquila’s northern areas. But it was nothing compared to this; high above the ocean, in one of the northernmost parts of the world, late at night, the moon not even providing that much light. Breezes, cutting and cold as ice, whipped past him and he was finding it sort of difficult to breathe.   
  
It didn’t help that he only had his bomber jacket. England had warned him that they’d need to borrow some polar weather clothing from the crew. “Coats, big coats and parkas made of animal hide and lined with fur. You’ll need one of those to stay remotely comfortable.”   
  
And they’d only just stepped out of the plane. England huffed, his breath forming fog. “Obviously. We’re not that far from the polar circle, you know.”   
  
In the freezing night, it was almost… oddly quiet. They could hear activity on the ship, but it was muffled and dulled, stifled by the wind and the cold.   
  
A man ran up to them, wrapped from head to toe in warm clothing, a fur cloak on his back and a scarf around his head. He carried a halberd, large, ornate, and very, very sharp.  
  
“Hey England is he…”  
  
“Greetings, Iceland,” England interrupted, approaching the man. Iceland nodded.  
  
“Let me just get your plane tied down. You know how the ice likes to make things slide.”   
  
He grabbed a thick, long, coil of rope from beside the mast and began anchoring the plane. America took the time to survey his surroundings.   
  
The ship was huge, and it was unlike any ship he’d ever seen. The sails (one massive sail up top and small wing like sails on the side of the ship) weren’t cloth like England’s, but animal hide, leather or some sort, tough and probably treated to remain water and ice proof. Considering the bitter wind and the storms they probably dealt with, America understood why they’d need a tougher material. The boat was much, much longer than it was wide, and the ends, outside a large decoration on the front, were symmetrical. America recalled seeing ships like this in his history books during school, but he had no idea there were skyships modeled in a similar manner.   
  
The man wrangling down the plane looked young, perhaps even younger than America. He was small framed, had wispy, almost white hair, and a fresh looking face. But he also looked like someone America wouldn’t want to mess with. Perhaps it was the resolute, almost emotionless expression he held as he worked, or perhaps it was the giant, really sharp, really dangerous looking halberd.  
  
“Is he the captain?” America leaned over to England and asked.   
  
“No, he’s not. He’s the youngest on the ship, actually,” England replied.  
  
Iceland glanced up from where he was working. “I can finish this myself. Just get yourself inside. It’s supposed to be getting colder tonight.”  
  
“Colder? Is that even possible?” America said.   
  
Iceland leveled him a deadpan stare. “It’s actually somewhat decent outside right now for this area. So yes.”  
  
America pouted, crossing his arms over his chest to keep himself warm.   
  
“I’ll bring your packs and equipment in when I’m done,” Iceland said.   
  
“Thank you very much,” England replied, nodding politely. He turned to America. “Follow me, all right?”  
  
As they walked off, England taking the lead, Iceland shouted, “Watch your step. The deck is icy tonight.”  
  
America’s shoulders slumped. “Seriously?”  
  
England shook his head. “You’ll have to get used to it. It’s the bleeding polar circle.”   
  
He pouted again, but his attention was drawn away by a man leaning against the entrance to the ship’s cabins. He was tall, taller than America even, and he was dressed in all black and red, which was sort of intimidating. He looked several years older than Iceland, and he was intently polishing an axe. It was seriously a huge one, probably twice as tall as America. Geez, what was up with this ship? America suddenly felt glad that he and England had both already grabbed their weapons from the plane.   
  
“Is that the captain?” he asked.  
  
England actually laughed. “Denmark? God no, and I think that everyone is thankful of that.”  
  
At that moment, Denmark’s attention broke away from the axe. He smiled at England and America, but instead of it being fierce of intimidating, it was wide and huge and kind of… really, really goofy.  
  
“Not the sharpest sword in the shed, if you ask me,” England murmured, leading America inside.   
  
It was still bitter cold on the stairway, but it grew warmer as they descended into the ship. Thank heavens.  
  
“I’ve never used it, but they do have a sauna on this ship.”  
  
“A  _sauna_?”   
  
“Yes, it’s something the captain insisted on installing.” England’s mouth quirked up in a small smile. “If you’re that cold, we can ask if we can use it sometime. But they do keep the ship quite warm, in the cabins.”   
  
America nodded enthusiastically. “Yes please.”  
  
The next crewmember they came across was sitting in a cabin, his door wide open. “Hallo, Norway,” England greeted him.  
  
Norway nodded. He was not of exceptionally frightening appearance, just a calm, almost bored expression, slightly below medium height, and America thought, a vague resemblance to Iceland.   
  
But he did have an enormous crossbow next to him, and he was working on making arrows for it at the moment.  
  
“Geez, why is everyone playing with sharp objects?” America blurted out.  
  
Norway’s lips quirked up in an odd, almost ironic, slight smile. “We have a battle ahead, do we not?”   
  
“Yeah… that’s true,” he responded, scratching the back of his head.   
  
“Norway---“  
  
“Captain is in the crew’s meeting room, down the hall and to the left. The large, ornate door.”  
  
England nodded. “Yes, I know of it. Thank you very much.”  
  
He led America onward, and they stopped in front of the described door.   
  
It  _was_  ornate. The wooden door was carved completely, covered from head to foot with what America assumed to be mythological figures? He didn’t know.   
  
England noticed his curiosity. “This is Ukko,” he pointed to the elderly, but powerful looking man that dominated the image, “a god of sky, weather, and crops. It’s best to be on his good side, I suppose.” He gestured to an older woman by Ukko’s side. “Akka, his wife. When they make love, it creates thunder.”   
  
America wrinkled his nose at this, and England smiled. “I suppose it is a bit odd. Anyway, the young woman is their daughter, Ilmatar, creator of the world. I’m actually… a bit interested in things like this.”  
  
He grinned. “No, me too! Legends and stuff are awesome.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
America rejoiced inwardly, because he seriously loved it when he discovered things he and England had in common… anymore, at least. He knew it used to be the opposite; it used to drive him nuts.  
  
“Yeah, really! Anyway, let’s meet this pirate captain.”   
  
England knocked, and almost immediately, they heard a muffled, “c’me in.”  
  
He pushed the heavy door open, and it creaked on its hinges.  
  
The first thing that America noticed was… yeah this was definitely the captain. He was very tall, and a long, razor sharp, thick blade, was hilted at his waist. The blade almost reached his feet. He had short blond hair and glasses, but it wasn’t his weapon or his size that convinced America. It was his face.  
  
England wasn’t exactly what America had anticipated a pirate to be like. Okay, he was nothing like it. He was cute for one. He knew that England could be tough and yeah, badass, when the time called for it, but if he just saw him in the street, he’d think he was non-threatening and sort of adorable (more like  _really_  adorable). But this guy? He wasn’t bad looking or anything, but it was almost like his face was created for the sole purpose of freaking people out. He just stared you down, and America felt as if he were being sized up for… imprisonment or worse. Who knew? Either way, no one in their right mind would want to fight him.   
  
Thank god this guy was an ally.   
  
“Good evening, Sweden,” England broke the silence.  
  
“G’d ev’ning,” he  _grunted_  in response.   
  
“You must be the captain,” America said, trying his best to play the friendly ally in the face of… Sweden, apparently.   
  
Sweden let out a short laugh, which sounded really strange from him.  
  
At that moment, someone else entered the room. He came from a door on the side of the room, not the one they’d entered, and America assumed that it led to a cabin or a restroom or something.  
  
This man looked kind and cheerful, a sweet and open smile on his face. He wasn’t wearing any thick furs, just a loose shirt and a blue vest over it (then again, it was pretty warm in the room). He was shorter than everyone but perhaps Iceland, and he just radiated friendliness. Not much like a pirate, really. Even less so than England when he was being really cute. Okay, there was a sniper rifle strapped to his back, but it wasn’t quite as… unnerving as the other weapons.   
  
“Is this guy a prisoner?” America leaned over to England and whispered.   
  
England leveled him a glare that clearly read  _are-you-bloody-serious_.   
  
The mysterious man approached the duo with a smile, reaching forward to shake England’s hand. “Evening, England! So this is the America you brought along with you? Never thought we’d have a military man on the ship,” he laughed. “Please don’t arrest us!”  
  
America bit his lip and frowned. “Well… ex-military.”   
  
“That’s a relief,” he said. “Although… no offense, but I do think we could take you out.” A wink.  
  
Wait, so this guy was part of the crew?  
  
Sweden stepped up next to him. “You ok’y?” he asked. “Yo’ were g’ne for a while.”  
  
“I’m fine! Hanatamago just had a little accident. Sweden, you know you don’t need to fuss like that.”  
  
“S’good then,” he answered, and America actually thought he looked really concerned. This whole thing was just strange.  
  
“Anyway, let me introduce myself, America. Or… Captain Jones?”  
  
“America is fine.”  
  
He smiled and leaned forward, offering his hand to America. “I’m Captain Väinämöinen, leader of the Ukko Pirates. You can just call me Finland though!”  
  
America’s jaw dropped. 


	31. Northern Lights

"I'm Captain Väinämöinen, leader of the Ukko Pirates. You can just call me Finland though!"  
  
America’s jaw dropped, and his throat felt just a little bit dry and he was trying to stifle laughter. “Y-you?”  
  
Finland cocked an eyebrow and let out a short laugh. “That tends to be the reaction. I’m sure Captain Kirkland can sympathize.”   
  
England flushed a bit at this and scowled. “It’s true that people often assume Prussia is the captain, god forbid.”   
  
Sweden cleared his throat, placing a hand on Finland’s shoulder. “M’wife’s the best c’ptain you could ev’r ask for.”   
  
Now America was really confused. Had he just called the captain his wife? He glanced between the two, his eyebrows furrowed, and then he turned his attention to England, whose expression was one of complete normalcy.   
  
Apparently this was only weird to America.   
  
Tapping England on the shoulder, he gave him a bewildered look. England’s eyes widened and a small, amused smile crossed his lips. “I’ll explain later,” he whispered. America let out a breath of air, his bangs flying upward.   
  
Finland laughed nervously. “Ahhaha, Sweden. I’m not your wife!” He puffed up his cheeks a bit. “And besides, I’m definitely not the best captain. Sweden is such a flatterer, so don’t listen to him when he says silly things like that. “  
  
England cleared his throat loudly, shooting a pointed glare toward Finland.   
  
Cheeks pinking, Finland rubbed the back of his head. “Right, so let’s talk about this Kosmider business. It’s what you’re here for, and I imagine you’re tired.”   
  
America surveyed the room, ignoring the rustic furniture and paying attention to the expressions and posture of the other three men. Sweden and Finland looked awake, but England looked exhausted, and now that he thought about it, he was starting to really feel it as well. He yawned, and without asking, he yanked a chair out from under the table and sat down.   
  
And of course said yawning was contagious. England followed suit. “Dead tired, actually. We kept things intentionally vague over the radio of course, but America managed to gather a reliable sounding tip on the location of this fortress. It’s in the middle of bloody nowhere, but we do have the exact coordinates.”  
  
“That’s wonderful,” Finland said with a smile. He sat down at the table as well, and England and Sweden joined him as he pored over a large map of the northern regions.   
  
America leaned forward and pressed his finger to the map, working to pinpoint the coordinates on the aged and stained piece of parchment before him.   
  
“We’ll need to go up far north, almost to the pole. It’s crazy that they’d build something up that far. It’s cold and dangerous, and there are all those mountains, but hell, the Kosmider doesn’t seem to shy away from crazy.”  
  
A knock on the door interrupted America, and he glanced behind him to see Iceland entering the meeting room. The youngest of the crew gave a stern nod to Finland and closed the door behind him, the heavy wood reverberating across the large cabin and drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Captain, I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”  
  
“Oh, no you’re fine!” Finland smiled. “America here was just talking to us about the location of this Kosmider base. It sounds like a deathtrap, but that’s nothing we can’t handle.”  
  
America gave him an odd look, having never heard the word ‘deathtrap’ used so cheerily.   
  
“Sounds wonderful,” Iceland replied with a slight roll of his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve put your packs in the room we have for you, and there are also a few sets of furs in there for you to put on in the morning.”  
  
“Cover up well,” Finland added. “We’ll be above the polar circle by the time you wake up.”   
  
“How cold?” America queried, because honestly he’d never been much of a fan of the cold.   
  
“Well it’s w’nter,” Sweden said.   
  
“Cold enough to freeze my balls off then?” He cringed.   
  
England let out an amused snort.   
  
“If you don’t cover said balls up well enough, yes,” Iceland replied. “Anyway, Captain, would you mind telling us next time we are going to have a  _military_  plane come aboard the ship? Norway had to stop Denmark from greeting them with the head of his axe.”   
  
Finland frowned.   
  
“He didn’t forget to tell you,” England said with a sigh. “It’s my fault. I forgot to tell Captain Väinämöinen. I apologize. I know I told you it was a plane, and that he was involved in the military, but I’m sorry I didn’t---“  
  
“Oh, you’re a military man then?” Iceland frowned. “That’s unexpected, especially considering England, but I suppose allies are allies.”   
  
America twitched, and his expression crumpled slightly. “I’m not---“ he began, and his throat caught. It was hard to even say it. It was like his lips forbid the words from coming out, because voicing them just made them even truer, even more undeniable. “I’m not part of the military any longer,” he rushed out, and he was staring at his lap, his fists clenched together above his knees. When Finland had brought it up a few minutes before, it had struck a nerve, but having it brought up for a second time just made it worse, like it was already sore and someone was rubbing that painfully raw spot.   
  
Iceland shrugged. “Decide to cut loose, that a pirate’s life was for you? Sounds kind of idiotic, but-“  
  
“I was kicked out!” America shouted. “Now shut up, okay?”   
  
England was immediately by his side, hand clasped on his shoulder. “America!”   
  
Iceland’s mouth dropped for a moment, and regret flashed across his features. “I’m sorry. I struck a nerve somehow, and I… didn’t mean to.”  
  
“It’s quite all right,” England replied brusquely, still touching America, who had looked up at him, a beseeching expression on his face. “It happens. But I reckon that America and I are both rather tired, so how about he just gives you the coordinates and we’ll head to bed?” America gave him a small smile of appreciation.   
  
“Okay,” Finland said with a nod. “Iceland, I’ll have America write them down, and then take them to Norway, all right.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Iceland said.   
  
“Norway…”  
  
“Is our n’vigator,” Sweden explained.   
  
Finland tore off a small piece of parchment and snatched an ink pen from the table, sliding both over to America. Rather lethargically, he grabbed the pen and jotted the latitude and longitude. “Sail here. I can tell you more of the physical markers tomorrow, okay? I mean it will be a while before we get there, right?”  
  
“Yes, a day and a half or so, I’d imagine,” Finland said once he’d read it and correlated it to the map. He handed Iceland the slip of paper, and Iceland left the room. “By the way, don’t worry about Denmark. He wouldn’t have actually done anything unless you really had been trying to arrest us.”   
  
America felt a small smile cross his face at this, in spite of his mood.   
  
“England, you’ll be in the cabin down the hall, last door on the left.”  
  
England shifted, placing his hand on America’s lower arm in the process. “Now where’s America’s cabin going to be?”  
  
Finland scratched his cheek, looking a bit confused. “Ah well didn’t you hear Iceland earlier? It’s a room. Well we only have two extra cabins on the ship, and Denmark-“  
  
“’s an idiot,” Sweden interrupted.   
  
“Denmark,” Finland continued, “is storing a bunch of supplies in there right now. He’s made it a sort of weaponry workshop.”   
  
“So basically…” England sighed, his cheeks heating.   
  
“I should have told you before, but I’m afraid you two will have to share the cabin.”  
  
America’s face grew red as well, and he placed a hand to his forehead. This again? Oh he liked sharing a bed with England. Actually, he really, really liked it. If it was up to him, he’d share a bed with England every night.  
  
Well maybe that was going a bit overboard. He felt his flush deepen. Only… not really, because hey he liked the guy, so why wouldn’t he want to sleep with him? But there was this strange, palpable tension between him and England, and it was almost painful when they were that close. It was like there was a string tied between them, and it had been pulled so tight that it was strained, that it ached, and that it would snap if it was any tauter. And when it snapped, America kind of sort of thought that the result might be him just grabbing England and kissing the daylights out of him, which would end up either really awkward or really awesome.   
  
Then again, he had just spent an entire day crammed in a cockpit with the guy, so sleeping with him again couldn’t be much worse, could it?  
  


* * *

  
  
Sleeping in the same bad as England was one thing. Planning to sleep in the same bed as England was another thing entirely. In the previous two situations, they’d just sort of… ended up sharing a bed, for some specific reason that caused them to be distracted enough to not think too much about the whole in the same bed thing. America realized this when they entered the room, shooting nervous glances at each other as they walked over to their packs. Iceland had indeed brought their belongings downstairs, and he’d placed them neatly in the corner of the cabin. His mood was still dampened by what had happened earlier, and he felt stupid for it. He couldn’t afford to fall into a sulk whenever something about him being booted out was mentioned. It was unheroic, and even if it weren’t unheroic, because heroics were something he had been trying not to think of too much recently, it was also counterproductive, and it probably made him look sort of unreliable, which he didn’t want, because what he was doing now, what he’d come up north to do, was  _important_.   
  
They had to change into their pajamas, and suddenly, with his back turned to England as he removed his shirt and his pants and stripped down to his boxers, trying to avoid glancing over his shoulder at the other man, America felt like he was in high school again. Like he was a teenage boy who had invited someone special over, and they were  _maybe_  going to try something, but they needed to take their clothes off first, and there were butterflies in their stomachs and they couldn’t even face each other and all in all it was a horrible idea.   
  
But he wasn’t trying anything with England. He was just sleeping in the same bed as him, and he’d even done it before. He pulled on his pajama pants with a grumble, wondering idly if behind him, England was putting on the striped pajamas that he was wearing when they first met and when he’d come aboard the ship after he’d been kicked out.  
  
Just make small talk, he thought to himself. He did have one thing he legitimately wanted to bring up with England.   
  
“So,” he began as he buttoned up his shirt, “you were going to tell me about that wife thing? Is Finland actually a woman or something?” he joked.   
  
England let out a short laugh. “Most certainly not. It’s an odd story though, that is for sure.”   
  
America nodded. “I’m dressed, so you can turn around.”   
  
“Yes, same.” England padded over to his side. America noticed that he was indeed, wearing those striped pajamas, and he felt a smile quirk at his lips.   
  
“So uh… bed,” America cleared his throat, and he knew that his cheeks were flushed.   
  
“R-right. Quite…”   
  
They both glanced over toward the bed. It was a nice bed, nicer by far than the simple bed in the cabin he slept in on England’s ship. It was a four poster bed, and the headboard was decorated with wood carvings, much like the ones on the door he’d noticed earlier. The blankets looked warm, and at the bottom of the bed there was even a thick fur blanket. America didn’t think they’d need it though, since it was kept so warm down below deck. Plus, there was going to be body heat, and the bed wasn’t actually any bigger than the one on England’s ship.   
  
America took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, pulling back the blankets and sheets as he did so. He scooted into the bed, patting the spot next to him.  
  
“So tell me this odd story,” he asked as England crawled in next to him.  
  
They were both tense, America could tell. England was as nervous as him.   
  
He adjusted the pillow and began, “Finland and Sweden’s parents were very close. They grew up in a small village, and it was quite a traditional area. Often close friends would promise their children to each other in marriage. Er, well… they wouldn’t get married until they were adults, obviously, but… yes…”  
  
America wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never liked that. That’s not a decision that anyone should make but the people getting married. ”  
  
England’s lips quirked up. “Well yes, I quite agree.”  
  
“I mean you can’t arrange love,” America continued, but even as the words left his mouth, he grew flustered. He turned away, facing the wall.  
  
“Well aren’t you the romantic,” England said with a gulp, his own face feeling warmer. “A-anyway, as I said, they were just a bit old fashioned. Finland and Sweden were promised to each other before they were even born,” he paused. “B-but of course they both ended up being boys, so the arrangement was annulled.”   
  
“Oh…”  
  
“Oh? I thought that you hated the idea of arranged marriage,” England said, placing his hands behind his head on the pillow.   
  
America turned back to face England. “Well yeah, I do. I just… well… never mind.”  
  
England shook his head. “Sweden agreed with you. The pair grew up together, as the best of friends, and by the time they were teenagers, Sweden had rather taken to Finland, romantically. And Finland most certainly felt the same. They had grown up hearing about their annulled engagement, as it had become a bit of a joke, but Sweden, who was very much in love with Finland, didn’t understand why they couldn’t reinstate it.”   
  
Resting his head on his hand, elbow propped on the pillow, America bit his lip. “They probably wouldn’t be willing to marry two guys.”  
  
“Yes, exactly,” England said. “But Sweden was upset, so he took to calling Finland his wife to make a point. And it stuck, even to this day. He doesn’t use it often, but generally when he’s talking to someone new he’ll use it at least once. Finland finds it embarrassing though. I think he’d much rather they both be husbands.” He smiled a half-smile. “In any case, that’s the story.”  
  
Of course it had been a love story, America cursed inwardly. Hearing a love story while lying in bed with England, mere inches between them, didn’t exactly help him much in the flustered department. But on a positive note, it had distracted him from being upset. He felt England shift slightly and there was a hand on his wrist.   
  
“Are you all right, by the way?” he asked, his voice soft and comforting. “Bloody hell, I should have told them we were flying here in a military plane. I’m sorry.”  
  
America yawned, and he slid off his glasses, rubbing his eyes after he did so. “I’m okay. Thanks though. I just gotta suck it up, you know? At least I didn’t start crying again or something,” he said, a small, lopsided attempt at a smile crossing his lips.  
  
England chuckled. “Quite right, I suppose. But don’t you start bottling it up or whatnot just to stop yourself from getting upset. That will just make it worse in the end.”  
  
The advice was almost humorous, ironic, from England, because America felt that the other man definitely needed to work on not ‘bottling it up,’ probably more so than himself. But he didn’t comment. Not this time.   
  
“Is it really going to be that cold tomorrow?” he asked.  
  
England let out a puff of air, and he took America’s glasses from his hand, placing them on the bedside table. “Colder than you can even imagine. We’ll definitely need that fur blanket down there tomorrow night, that’s for certain.”   
  
America’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “I  _really_  hate the cold.”   
  
“Then it’s a good thing that your dying plane landed on my ship that night as opposed to this ship,” England countered, his smile wry.   
  
“Heh. You act like I’d start hanging out with any old pirate.” America turned to face England, and he knew his smile was fond, and he didn’t really care. “That is totally not the case.”   
  
“Oh really now?” England teased.  
  
“No way. Only you.”  
  
Their hands brushed under the blanket, and neither knew who initiated it, but within moments their fingers had twined together and their hands were gently clasped. They remained that way as they drifted off into sleep, and for the rest of the night.   
  


* * *

  
  
America had never experienced a morning like this before. It was only partly the cold, which was bitter and biting, even while covered in thick, warm furs. It was also only partly the huge, fat flakes of snow falling on the deck of the ship.   
  
What was stranger than both of those things was the fact that it didn’t look as if it were morning at all. When he’d awoken, he’d glanced out the porthole and assumed it was just before dawn, twilight.   
  
He’d heard of the polar night before, but he’d completely forgotten that he’d likely be experiencing it, since it was winter and he was going very, very far north. They were certainly above the polar circle now.  
  
It wasn’t just the night, which was a bizarre thing all on its own. There was no sun, and yet it wasn’t completely dark, the stars shone and it resembled twilight (Finland informed him that it would get darker as they traveled further north).   
  
It was also the aurora, which splashed the sky with colors and shapes that rendered America breathless. He’d seen the aurora once before, when his family had taken a trip up to northern Aquila years before. But it was different to see it from within the sky itself, and it was far more vivid than the one he’d seen with his family.   
  
He stood at the edge of the ship, his gloved hands on the rim, and watched it, watched as a pulsating gold twisted into a brilliant orange. Norway had come out a few minutes before and commented that this was ‘a lot brighter’ than most auroras they encountered, and America had smiled at this, because if it was pretty awesome by their standards, it must have been amazing.   
  
England was next to him, a cup of hot tea in hand. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”   
  
“It’s wonderful.”  
  
“I don’t fancy a life up here at all, but I wouldn’t mind seeing the northern lights more often.”   
  
“Haha yeah, same.” America pulled back from the edge of the ship, stretching his arms. Moving in all the layers of clothing he wore had been difficult, but he was getting used to it by now. He was bundled up to his ears, only his face and a little bit of his hair peeking out. “Hey England?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Two things,” he paused, “One- I was thinking that if we’re going to kick some bad guy ass, maybe… geez this is hard to ask.” He bit his lip. “It would be really great if I could get some help learning close quarters combat stuff? I mean I’m a good shot, and in my plane I’m the best, but…”  
  
England snorted. “If I recall, you already do have a rather mean left hook.”   
  
America scratched his cheek, a sheepish expression crossing his face. “Yeah, sorry about that. But anyway, I don’t think I can really have a fistfight with the Kosmider. I don’t expect to be an expert, but it would be… nice to have something to fall back on?”   
  
Cocking an eyebrow, England crossed his arms. “You want to me to teach you to use a sword?”  
  
“If you could. I’ve kind of always wanted to do it anyway.”  
  
England leveled him a look.  
  
“What? It might be kind of old fashioned, but it’s  _cool_.”   
  
“Cool, hmm?” England tapped his chin. “Well I suppose, if that’s the case I can teach you a bit. It takes discipline though, just warning you.”  
  
“I think I can handle it.” America poked England’s cheek, and he blushed, although America could barely tell since he was already red with windburn.   
  
“And the second thing?”  
  
At this, America’s expression grew timorous, and England fixed him a quizzical look. “I know it might seem kind of weird, but if they have anything aboard the ship to do it with I’d…” he paused, letting out a breath of air and watching it form, foggy white, in front of him, “I’d kind of like to paint my plane. P-paint over… the military stuff, you know? Make it my own…”  
  
England’s eyes widened for a moment, but then a warm smile crossed his lips. He reached forward and placed a thickly gloved hand on America’s cheek, and America thought that, as nice as that was, he’d much rather be feeling England’s skin. “You know what America? I think that’s a grand idea.” 


	32. The Wanderer

Canada didn’t have that many belongings with him at the base. Most of his free time was spent on his mechanics hobby, and all of those items were bits and bobs he’d collected here and there that he kept in his workshop at the base. Much of that technically belonged to the military anyway. He was able to cram all of his stuff into two duffel bags, and he carried them with ease to Cuba’s apartment above La Bayamesa. He’d contacted the barkeeper the day before, and he’d agreed with the only stipulation being that Canada pay for his own food. Of course he would, Canada had replied.  
  
So here he was, moving out of the dorm that had been his home for almost three years, and for a reason that he would have found unfathomable just a few weeks before. His chest clenched as he recalled his last conversation with America. It had been a horrible, aggressive conversation, the likes of which he’d only had a few of his entire life with America. Previously they could cool down and make up, but this time that wasn’t an option. America was as close as a brother and was his very best friend, and he was gone, an outlaw aboard a pirate ship (no doubt that’s where he was hiding) with little chance for redemption. He wasn’t trying to be cynical, but if the Kosmider had their fingers that deep within the military, what chance did they really have to clear his name? He would try, they would try, but he didn’t have high hopes.   
  
The door clicked open and Cuba greeted him, holding back his white and chocolate brown cat, Ice Cream, with one hairy leg as he did so. “Yo Canada, come on inside. The futon is all yours so you can just set your stuff beside it.”   
  
Canada nodded, and his cheeks flushed slightly when Cuba slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks so much, eh. You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would have done without you…”  
  
Cuba shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Just as long as you pay for your own food.” He let out a bark of a laugh.   
  
Sliding his duffel bag straps off his shoulders and onto the ground, Canada responded with a wan smile.   
  
There was an awkward silence, neither of them wanting to bring up the reason Canada was there in the first place.   
  
Canada knew that Cuba didn’t like his cousin. It wasn’t a genuine, fierce hate or even really a hatred at all. He found him irritating and America played right into that, realizing how much he frustrated Cuba and getting a kick out of it. The first encounter between the two, years before, had been antagonistic, and it had only cemented and escalated from there. It was just a fact of life that Cuba and America didn’t get along, and Canada had just treated it with exasperation and resignation before now. He was sure that Cuba didn’t wish any genuine ill will upon his cousin, but that didn’t mean this situation wasn’t still awkward.   
  
Finally Cuba cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry about your cousin.”   
  
“Yeah, thanks,” replied Canada, sitting down on the futon as he did so. He sighed.   
  
Cuba scratched the side of his head, nervous. “I didn’t really like him, but it still seems… kinda weird.”  
  
Ice Cream had trotted up to the futon, mewing and requesting pets from Canada. He obliged. “Y-yeah it…” Gosh this was uncomfortable. He’d always found conversing with Cuba to be easy and relaxing, but that couldn’t be further from the truth at the moment. “I’m sure he’ll get his name cleared,” Canada responded.   
  
Cuba nodded. He had no idea how deep this went. “He doesn’t really seem like the treasonous type, that’s for sure. Those hotshots never are.”  
  
“Y-you know,” Canada began, and he gulped down a lump in his throat, “I always thought I knew America better than anyone else, but lately it’s like he’s been a completely different person.”   
  
“…Do you think he’s guilty?”  
  
“Eh?? No way!” He shook his head vehemently. “I just think that maybe if he hadn’t started acting differently, none of this would have happened. France says he changed for the better, and I don’t know… he could be right, but maybe sometimes it’s better to stay who you are. Even if changing makes you braver or more heroic or… whatever, you were safe before, happy before, so why risk that?”   
  
Cuba crinkled his nose and sat down next to Canada, smacking him on the back as he did so. “Y’know I really don’t have much of any idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“Oh yeah, sorry about that…” He exhaled, the curly strand of hair that fell into his face flying up as he did so. “I guess someone has to try and save the world, but I have no idea why he thinks it has to be him.”   
  
Cuba let out a short laugh. “That kid has always wanted to save the world, what’s new about that?”   
  
“Ah no you don’t understand.” Canada frowned. “I guess I could… how long before you open the bar for the evening?”   
  
“Two hours, why?”   
  
“If you don’t mind, can I tell you what’s happened? Some of it is sort of… private and top secret, so maybe not all of it, but I just need to vent. “  
  
Cuba shot him a half smile. “Sure thing. Do you wanna drink before you get started? I can go down to the bar and grab you something.”  
  
Canada pursed his lips and let out a sputter. “God,  _yes_.”   
  


* * *

  
  
“It’s not the most ideal situation,” England said. “Mobility is limited here and the deck is bloody covered in ice, but it will have to do.” He adjusted the harness around his waist, which attached to the middle of the ship. Finland had advised they wear them when they were on deck doing anything that required a lot of effort or dangerous movement. The slick ice of the deck made it too dangerous otherwise, and although the cleats they’d been given to wear on the deck helped, it was still worth taking the extra safety precaution. The furs they wore were still cumbersome as well. The Ukko crew had no such difficulty, and their mobility was not at all hindered by the presence of the thick clothing. They were quite obviously very much used to it.   
  
America laughed. “On the bright side, if you accidentally stab me it probably won’t even penetrate all these layers.”   
  
England huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his sword in hand and sticking outward to his left. “I’m not going to stab you. It’s true that normally you’d be learning with a dull practice sword instead of the real thing, but we don’t have that option.”  
  
“Easy England, I was kidding.” America held up his arms, his gloved hand clutching a long small sword that he’d borrowed from Denmark’s ‘weapons workshop’. “I trust you, you know that.”   
  
England’s frown melted into a small smile. “Right then, have you had any training at all with a blade?”  
  
“They had some optional fencing lessons back in school, and I went to a few of them, but that was years ago and it was pretty basic,” America responded.   
  
England nodded. He had initially been worried about there not being enough light, but the unusually vivid aurora combined with the lights of the ship gave them more than enough. “Well at the very least we’re not starting from scratch then.” He hilted his rapier.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I’ve got to teach you how to hold the damn thing before we go forward,” England let out a puff of air and shook his head at America’s dismal stance. He walked over and stepped to America’s side, hesitating a moment before placing his hand atop his sword arm, his left arm.   
  
It seemed that he couldn’t stop touching him, like fate or coincidence or whatever was forcing them to come into physical contact almost constantly, England thought as he moved his hand down, placing it atop America’s fingers. There were thick gloves preventing their skin from touching, but nonetheless, the thought wouldn’t leave England’s mind. He felt as if the world was teasing him. How much more could he take of touching America, sleeping with him, sitting on his lap, instructing him, and holding him until he couldn’t handle it any longer? It was all quite unfair.   
  
Relieved that the cold would hide his blush, England cleared his throat. “R-right so what you’ve got here is a small sword. I know it’s not actually small, but that’s the name. You’re going to need to take your thumb and your index finger and pinch the hilt between the two.” He shifted America’s fingers into the correct position, and America allowed him to do so, too intent at listening to England to protest. “Good now. You can actually hold the sword either supplanted, with the palms up and the knuckles down, or pronated, with the palm down and the knuckles up. It makes for a very versatile weapon.”   
  
He exhaled as he pulled away, his hot breath tickling America’s cheek and causing them both to flush. “Got it?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” America replied. “Now let’s get to the actual fighting!” He grinned.  
  
England chuckled. “Honestly, ever the impatient aren’t you?” America stuck his tongue out, which England deigned to ignore. “Right so, sparring.” He cleared his throat and began to instruct America on the ways of the blade.  
  
America was a fast learner when he wanted to be, England discovered. He had a feeling that he was the type to have to be really interested in something to take it in, and luckily he appeared to be legitimately fascinated by what England was teaching him. He had extremely fast reflexes, no surprise, and his natural athleticism was apparent in his every move. England was simultaneously jealous of this and attracted to it. Of course, England reminded himself, it took years upon years to hone one’s skills with a sword, and America would walk away from today’s lessons with only the basics.  
  
England had just parried an attack from America when Finland’s heavy cleats and his cheerful ‘hello!’ interrupted their practice. America jerked up and smiled, waving at the captain.   
  
England nodded and greeted him as well. “Good afternoon, Finland.”   
  
“Good afternoon!” He smiled. “I have something important to tell you.”   
  
Both America and England hilted their blades. “Huh?”   
  
“You may have noticed how bright the aurora is today, or at the very least, I’m sure someone has mentioned it to you.” His smile turned into a small frown, and he glanced up at the sky, taking in the lights, which were now flashing green and yellow and undulating across the horizon.   
  
“Yes Norway mentioned he found it unusual,” England replied.   
  
“Well…” A nervous laugh, and Finland scratched his cheek, “it turns out we’re in the middle of a geomagnetic storm! It’s happened before, but usually we’re at much lower latitude so it doesn’t affect us as much.”   
  
“A geomagnetic storm?” America said. “Can’t really intense ones interrupt radar and navigation and radio and all of that?”   
  
“Our radio isn’t working at all, and the compasses are going crazy, much to Norway’s irritation,” Finland replied.  
  
“Should we head back down below the polar circle?” England inquired. This wasn’t something he was familiar with at all, having never taken Victoria to high latitudes.   
  
Finland shook his head vehemently. “That would be a terrible idea.” He grinned, and there was something in his expression, something almost predatory; a glint in his eye and a clench of his fist added to the effect. “This is the perfect time to go for the Kosmider base. They’ll  _never_  know we’re coming. We’ve been handed a huge advantage.”   
  
America blinked, still taken aback by the small, baby-faced captain’s occasionally fierce attitude. “Um, how are we going to get there with none of the nav working though?”  
  
Finland held his hands up and shrugged. “Thanks to your directions and all the landmarks you provided, it shouldn’t be a problem. Norway is the best of the best, and we’re close to land already. It shouldn’t be too difficult.” America puffed up his chest slightly, feeling proud that his info had been that helpful, despite what it had cost him to acquire.   
  
England bit his lip and tapped his chin. With any other crew, he’d be thinking this a disaster. But the Ukko had the skills to back up their confidence, and he wasn’t too concerned about arriving at the Kosmider base. That being said… he was worried about not being able to contact the Victoria. He’d sent them a brief radio upon arriving the previous night, but vanishing into the polar circle for days without any more contact was sure to cause them to fear the worst. He sighed. It’s not as if there was anything he could do about it. “Still about a day left before we arrive, even with these circumstances?”  
  
Finland nodded. “Yes, give or take some time.”   
  
Touching the sword at his side, America let out a short laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be an expert with this by then.”  
  
England glanced at him and, as much as he didn’t want to boost his ego, attempted to force out a “you’re doing very well, actually.”  
  
But Finland interrupted him. “If what England has told me about you in that plane is true, you’re going to be fine.” England blushed. “Speaking of we’ll get your plane all loaded up with firepower before we arrive, no worry!”   
  
“Awesome!”  
  
“And also… you mentioned during lunch that you wanted to paint your plane and were wondering if we had anything for that?”  
  
“Yeah. I mean it’s not that big a deal if you don’t. I was just wonder-“  
  
“Oh no we do. Come with me.” He held out his hand and gestured for America to follow him. “It’s better if you start doing it while it’s still warm out.”   
  
“Warm out?” America snorted.   
  
“It will be much colder tonight,” England said. “Once you bring the paint up, I’ll be more than happy to help you out.”   
  
America patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “Thanks England, you’re the best.”   
  
England buried his red cheeks and his smitten smile into the collar of his fur coat as America departed with Finland down below deck.   
  


* * *

  
  
The door to the ship’s storage room groaned loudly as Finland opened it. He pulled a string hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, and lit it up, illuminating piles and piles of weapons and possessions and trunks and cabinets.   
  
America walked in behind him, the wood creaking below his feet as he did so. Finland was already rummaging in a few cabinets at the back of the room, and he let out an ‘aha!’ after a few moments.  
  
“This isn’t actually paint made for planes, so it might not stay forever, but we’ve used it on our ship and weapons before, and even with the temperature here and the wear and tear, it’s very sturdy,” Finland explained as he placed some paint buckets on the floor.   
  
Nodding, America joined Finland by his side. “Wow, thanks a lot, seriously.”   
  
Finland gestured dismissively. “It’s no big deal.” He smiled. “Now what are you planning on painting?”   
  
America let out a short laugh and scratched the side of his head. “About that… at first I thought of just doing something cool with my name, but that would be a stupid idea since I’m, y’know… a fugitive.”   
Eyes widening, Finland leaned forward, more interested than ever in England’s mysterious military friend. “Eh? A fugitive?”   
  
He flinched and grimaced, hoping the dim light of the room would hide his reaction, but knowing it wouldn’t. Taking a deep breath and calming himself,  _don’t get worked up over this_ , America nodded. “I told you I was thrown out of the military,” he sighed, noticing that he spoke his words a bit shakily. “I was suspected of…” the word was hard to say, “ _treason_ ,” he paused, trying his best to keep his voice steady, “of being a spy for the Kosmider… so I…” He rubbed the back of his head, and a nervous, sheepish smile crossed his lips. “I stole my own plane and ran away to England’s ship.”   
  
Maybe it was the fact that America had been around so many pirates the past few days, god forbid, but the last part… when he said it again, actually made him sound kind of cool. He tried to berate himself for the thought, but it was a weak attempt.   
  
Finland smiled at him, and there was something warm and knowing in his expression, genuine empathy, as if he was capable of reading far more of America’s inner emotions than he’d wanted to display.  
  
“Ahhh that’s so cool,” he replied. “Not the treason. That’s awful of course. But taking what’s yours and leaving them behind?” His smile grew.   
  
“Well the Kosmider framed me… and…”  
  
“That’s smart then. If the Kosmider framed you, there’s no way you’d be judged to be innocent.” Finland tapped his chin.  
  
“Y-yeah. I thought the same thing.”   
  
Finland reached up and ruffled America’s hair. “You’re a smart kid.”  
  
America blushed, distinctly embarrassed. “I’m not a kid…”   
  
“Compared to me, both you and England are.” He chuckled and winked. “But don’t tell England I said that. He’d have my head.”   
  
“You and I both know that’s not true,” America said with a snort. “Anyway, the other thing I considered was… and you’ll probably think this is dorky, but I thought it was an amazing idea for a moment. My favorite comic book character, the Aquila Avenger? But then I realized that maybe that’s a bad idea because--- “  
  
Finland’s jaw dropped and he practically jumped in excitement. “The Aquila Avenger? That’s a great idea!”  
  
America shot him a confused look. “I-I decided it was a bad idea because… well I’m not really representing Aquila any longer. Treason against the military is considered,” he lowered his voice, sounding ashamed, “treason against your country. You’re no longer a citizen.” Something wet prickled at the corner of his eye, and he willed it to stop. “Didn’t I give that up when I ran away?” his voice cracked, and he sniffled. He’d been able to hold it in this entire conversation, but this was something he hadn’t considered yet, and it was… breaking him down once more. “I’m not even Aquilan now, am I?” He half choked on his words. “All I wanted was justice, and look where it got me…”   
  
Finland reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “When I was growing up, I lived in a very small village. But we went into the city a few times a year, and I would buy as many magazines and comics as I could!” He smiled. “The village never changed much, but those stories gave me visions of a world beyond it. Adventurers and superheroes and…” he let out a short laugh, “pirates of course. I still collect them; pulp magazines and comic books, and I can tell Sweden thinks it’s a bit silly, but he’d never admit it.”   
  
America frowned. “Umm…”  
  
“I love the Aquila Avenger!” he exclaimed. “I have almost his entire run.” He grabbed America by the arm, and with surprising strength, pulled him out of the storage room.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“So maybe the Aquila Avenger wouldn’t be the best idea for your plane, but what about the Wanderer?”   
  
“No way!” America protested. “From those  _Man without a Country_  issues? That storyline was terrible! Everyone hated it, and hell I remember writing in to complain about it. My letter didn’t get published, but that’s probably because so many other people wrote in saying the same thing. I almost cancelled my subscription.” The tension in his body loosened, just a bit, as he was guided to Finland’s room. Talking about something he loved, something so normal, even if it was an aspect of it that irritated him, was reassuring in its normalcy.   
  
“Are you kidding me? It’s the best one!” Finland pulled America into his room and reached under his bed, yanking out several boxes in quick order. “The Aquila Avenger finally stopped being just a symbol and started being his own person. Sure it took his own government turning against him, but…” He flipped through the boxes, which were, unlike America’s comic boxes, not in perfect order. “’I can’t fight for a government that goes against everything I believe in!’” Finland recited mock dramatically, finally pulling out the stack of comic issues in question. “’So I’ll strike out on my own. No longer, the Aquila Avenger…’”   
  
“’I’ll represent no country and just fight for the world, as the Wanderer,’’ America finished, in nary a whisper. Finland shot him a knowing look. “J-just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t own it. I’m a completionist!”   
  
Finland handed him the issues and America took them, sitting on the large bed (no doubt big enough for two) and flipping through them. “Maybe you should reread it,” Finland said.  
  
America ran his fingers over the pages and nodded, recalling when he’d first read them as a child, when things were simple and what was good and what was evil was as clear as the sky he adored, and there was no way a good man would be charged with treason, and there was no way that an organization he believed in could be corrupted to the point that a superhero would disown it. No wonder the Wanderer’s story had angered him. “He went back to being the Aquila Avenger in the end though…”  
  
“Once he realized that he wasn't ever supposed to be fighting for the government, or the military, and what they did had no bearing on who he was…”  
  
“Or on his morals, how good he was. He was fighting for his ideals,” America finished. He idly fiddled with the comics on his lap. “I-I can be--- _paint_  the Wanderer for now.”   
  
“And in the future maybe you can paint over it with the Aquila Avenger?” Finland cocked an eyebrow.   
  
America let out a short, nervous laugh. “Maybe. One step at a time though, I guess.”   
  
“That sounds like a plan!” Finland stood up, and gestured for America to do the same. “If you want the paint to dry before we get to that base tomorrow, we need to get started.”   
  
Grinning, America followed him. “Y-yeah.” He bit his lip. “Although now that I think about it, I’ve never really done much painting, and I’m not sure if England can draw comic book characters.”   
  
Finland laughed. “No problem. Sweden can help with that. You should see what he can do! That door to our meeting room? He  _carved_  it.”   
  
“That’s amazing!” America replied. He helped Finland carry the paint up to the deck, and his heart felt light, lighter than it had in a while, and he couldn’t wait to share that lightness with England. But first, they had a plane to paint.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Aquila Avenger/Wanderer storyline is vaguely based on an old 1970s Captain America arc. I always saw the AA as a combination between Cap and Iron Man. He's very much like Cap in personality, but he's a bit more technology based like Iron Man or Batman.


End file.
